


I Didn't Come Here to Party, I Only Came for the Cake

by attheendoftheday



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Chronically Ill Remus, Humor, M/M, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, and talking about feelings bc sirius and remus have some Issues, lots of baking talk lads, sirius and James are poc as they SHOULD BE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-22 13:11:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11968104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheendoftheday/pseuds/attheendoftheday
Summary: “Yunee foappy foabaaof,” James mumbles around the crepe in his mouth, gesticulating at the television with a fork.Sirius, much familiar with James-speak, translates.“I need to apply for the bake off?” Sirius asks. James nods.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is super self-indulgent, and I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing.
> 
> This is also my first multi-chaptered fic! I'll try to update on Tuesdays and Fridays, one or two chapters at a time. I plan on having it fully completed and posted by the end of the month.
> 
> All comments (whether criticism or compliment) are encouraged!!

Ever since Sirius first coined the phrase at the ripe age of eleven, Crepe Saturday has always been the same: an entire twelve (or twenty-four, if his weed supply is robust enough) hour period dedicated to perfecting crepes. It was the first bake Sirius had ever attempted himself, standing on a chair in his own sterile kitchen while the cook watched from the doorway, her arthritic fingers stretched halfway towards the phone in case he succeeded in burning down the house. 

Sirius didn’t mean to begin baking, although it’s not the sort of thing that tends to happen accidentally. At first it was a way to get messy and piss off his mum. As he moved on from singed crepes to more advanced bakes, however, baking soon became more: a process he could master and control, with attractive results that managed to win over teachers and half his year. 

(More importantly, his double chocolate brownies provided a satisfactory offering when Sirius began courting James and Peter for friendship. After Sirius had persuaded the kitchen staff at his new boarding school to let him in - dropping his last name as the final push - and spread the dessert throughout the boys’ dormitories, James had promptly informed Peter that they were officially adopting the new student.)

It’s fitting, then, that the whole business starts on the 416th Crepe Saturday.

They’re all in various positions in the kitchen of their flat: Sirius hovering over the stove, spatula in hand; Peter making indecent noises of pleasure, eyes closed to enjoy the crepe in his mouth and to ignore the nearly-sentient masses of powdered sugar and flour in the corners of the room; and James chewing with his mouth open and watching the tiny television propped up on their counter, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yunee foappy foabaaof,” James mumbles around the crepe in his mouth, gesticulating at the television with a fork. 

Sirius, much familiar with James-speak, translates. 

“I need to apply for the bake off?” Sirius asks. James nods. 

Sirius looks over at the screen, where a rerun of the Great British Bake Off is playing. The visual had cut to an attractive shot of two sheep munching on swaying, dew-soaked green grass. Sirius doesn’t know much about the show, but he has to at least applaud the cinematography.

“It was an advert,” James says, swallowing. He pokes his fork at the screen once more. “They’re taking applications, for a special season for people under twenty-five.”

Back on the screen, several middle aged women work their dough, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. One is making what appears to be the beginnings of a walnut cinnamon roll.

“My good looks are made for the camera,” Sirius says. James throws his crepe at him. 

After Sirius finishes cursing, James continues. “Think of it, Pads. Your soulful eyes gazing at the camera as you tuck your jet black hair behind your ears. The bad boy with a sensitive soul is the archetype everyone is going for these days. Have you read Twilight?”

“Baking is very sensitive,” Peter says. “And what you make tastes decent, anyway.”

“You have a leather jacket and baking skill. I’d fuck you,” James judges.

“As if you could handle me,” says Sirius, and the conversation is sidetracked as Peter covers his ears and begins to wail about James and fucking men and the woes of being the only straight person in the room.

That night, however, as Sirius lays in his bed thinking about how long it’s been since he’s had a proper lay, James’s words comes back to him. The idea is appealing; for all his experience, Sirius has never been able to see what he can do compared to everyone else. The competitive streak in him itches to get on the screen and see how he matches up to the other contestants. Sirius has never been the most humble of people, but he’s certain that it’s not his arrogance talking when he thinks about how good his bakes are. If his creme brulee was able to win over his fourth year class, why should it not win over the entirety of Britain?

As he scrolls through the website and downloads the application, the tiny voice in Sirius’s head that sounds suspiciously like his mother’s reminds him that it’s not like he’s doing anything else these days. He thinks of his bike and his several uni credits, and blows a giant raspberry at the voice to drown out what sounds vaguely like delinquent and philosophy is not what I would call a degree.

Sirius fills out the application that night and - although he would deny it - refreshes his email every ten minutes for the next three days until a response appears, the subject line reading “Application Received: More Information Requested”.

The following weeks are a blur, as he interviews with a very busy looking woman in a power suit and balances samples of cakes and cookies on his bike to drive to preliminary judging sessions. Several weeks in, he’s invited to bake something on camera in front of the Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood. Sirius makes a simple apple pie with pecan-infused crust, and hyperventilates half the flour after he’s finished until an intern tell him that he’s free to go and should expect a response within a week. Sirius spends several hours afterwards sitting in a dingy diner, stress-eating pie and practicing deep breathing exercises.

Somehow, after several days of drinking before noon, he gets a phone call.

Not looking at the number, Sirius accepts the call. “Hello?”

“Is this Sirius Black?” says a tinny voice on the other end, deep and authoritative, and for a brief wild moment Sirius wonders if this is about the fact that he hasn’t paid his taxes.

“I’m glad to inform you that you’ve been accepted as a contestant on the Great British Bake Off,” the phone says, and Sirius lets out a deep sigh.

He thanks the phone, tunes out the rest of the message which is presumably telling him about contracts and other dull business. If they wanted him to pay attention, they should have texted instead of called, like everyone else born in the last thirty years.

James and Peter creep into the room as he’s listening, and Sirius puts on speakerphone so they can listen in. He manages to end the call with a quick “thank you” before Peter shoves a bottle of cheap wine into his hand and James tackles him (as he is often wont to do), knocking the phone halfway across the room

In the following dreary weeks of late winter, the only bright punctuations from the gray are the frequent batches of letters and emails containing contracts and questionnaires and shooting schedules. Sirius keeps them in the back of his mind, a steady constant, and eventually their appearance goes almost unnoticed in favor of lecture topics and James’s jokes and trying to remember what exactly happened to Peter’s wallet at the pub the night before. 

The first day it’s warm enough to walk outside without gloves on, however, Sirius gets an inkling that the competition should be starting soon. 

He checks a calendar (James’s, of course, because he’s the only one who can be trusted on to know not only the month but also the day of the week, the overachiever) and nearly has a heart attack. He’s not the most organized of people, but someone should have given him a warning before he realized all on his own that the competition begins in exactly one month. 

Sirius closes his eyes, does some more deep breathing, and prepares to plan his strategy of attack. He’s been baking since before puberty. If anyone’s got this in the bag, it’s him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for commenting. It means a lot. I hope I did the first chapter justice. If this chapter's lacking on the food, don't worry: the REAL baking comes next chapter. I hope you like cake.
> 
> Unbeta'd, un-Brit-picked, and really just written for my own personal enjoyment. (But hey, if anyone wants to beta, shoot me an ask @ thatfemaletitan on Tumblr.)
> 
> I have most of the rest of the story written out but if there's anything particular you'd like to see in a future chapter, comment away. As with the last chapter: all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

On a Friday afternoon one month later, Sirius is tempted to admit that he has not, in fact, got this in the bag, or the box, or in any container at all. Sitting in the backseat of a cab, every second passing brings him closer to the competition grounds. Sirius shifts with nervous energy, as if he’s preparing to fight with a rolling pin in one hand and a sifter in the other.

He wouldn’t mind that as his way to go; it would make good television, at the very least.

Looking out the window, Sirius hugs his duffle bag to his chest. He's careful not to crush the folder of designs and flavor combinations for his upcoming bakes. In the week after he'd gotten the briefing about the first weekend's theme - cake - he’d set to practicing endless numbers of Swiss rolls and Victoria sponges. He’d baked one or more every day, force feeding the boys regardless of how many times James said that if he ate another bite he would throw up.

(Sirius stopped only when Peter really did throw up. He refuses to consider this a bad omen, though the possibility still nags.)

Too soon, the cab pulls up to the wrought-iron front gates of the manor in which the competition is set. Sirius steps out onto the gravel path and look around. He sighs, breath rising as white smoke in the cool air, and deflates at the dull scenery. Instead of the vibrant grass and peaceful animals depicted on screen, the manor grounds are varying degrees of gray and damp. He reminds himself that so is the rest of England, this time of year.

The weight of a thick stack of paper shoved into his hands shakes Sirius out of his thoughts.

“All contestants are inside waiting for introductory interviews,” says a balding man standing by the gates. He has one hand on his large headset and the other on a handful of stacked, stapled packets. He nods to a mousy assistant next to him, and she grabs Sirius’s arm. She steers him through a series of maze-like hallways before setting him in front of a pair of wide, wooden closed doors.

As she scuttles off, most likely searching for other bakers to manhandle, Sirius looks up at the doors looming above. Regardless of the presumably harmless baking amateurs waiting behind them, they radiate a sense of doom.

Sirius shakes himself. He’s Sirius Black, Goddammit, and even if he’s unemployed and written out of his family will and hasn’t had a steady boyfriend in months, he wasn’t the cause of his entire year’s sexual awakening for nothing. He puts both hands on the shiny door handles and tugs.

Instead of the expected faceless crowd, there’s only about two dozen people milling around. It’s all a bit anticlimactic. They do, however, all turn to look at the newcomer as the doors slam shut behind him. It gives Sirius the the odd echo-like memory of arriving late to a class in secondary.

Each contestant seems to have claimed their own bit of floor; they look around territorially, attempting small talk or staring at their phones. The scene reminds Sirius of an awkward school dance, without the music and with a fraction of the raging hormones.

He curses his fellow millennials’ inability to socialize, pastes on the tried and true smile that charms mothers, sons, daughters, and the occasional father, and sets to networking.

There’s one twenty five year old woman who is alarmingly pregnant and nicer than everyone Sirius has met before in his life, a man with a neck as thick as a log that looks like he hasn’t had a good shag in the past decade, and one precocious sixteen year old girl that squeaked when Sirius waved, which he considers a success. There’s also a towering, willowy thin woman with bright red hair who grips his hand when he introduces himself. When Sirius winks at her, she blinks and breathes out heavily through her nose.

(Sirius nicknames her Ginger Spice and makes a note to never make direct eye contact with her again, out of fear that she’ll charge him like a bull. She exudes a power that Sirius both fears and respects.)

There’s also one man with chin-length black hair, whom Sirius approaches right after Ginger Spice. He looks down his hook nose at Sirius and sniffs, eyes narrowed. His hand remains firmly at his side, and instead of raising it he glances towards Ginger Spice. Sirius is tempted to reassure him that he does not have to fear any untoward advances, but refrains, settling for smiling benevolently at Greasy Asshole’s pimple-covered face.

Regardless of those highlights, everyone passes by without much interest. Sirius knows he’s arrogant - it’s part of his charm - but he doesn’t sense any direct threat to his particular brand of scruffy good looks and stylishly sensitive love of baking. He scans the room one more time, a final observation of his fellow creatures in their natural habitat -

\- and his eyes stop in the far right corner of the room. Where Sirius had missed in his initial inspection of the room sits a boy. He’s talking to Ginger Spice, stretched out along a spindly wooden chair, a gray fisherman's sweater pilling at his pointy elbows. In reaction to one of her remarks, his lips press together, corner of his mouth tipping up. (Sirius is grudgingly impressed at the pulling off of a sideways smile without looking like an arsehole.) The boy brushes his brown hair out of his eyes, peering up at Ginger Spice, and his slender fingers linger on the side of his face.

Sirius is intrigued. (Not to mention that if he gets through this whole event without sleeping with one or more eligible bachelors he’ll compromise his entire reputation, and he can’t have that.)

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Sirius says, inserting himself next to Ginger Spice and sticking out his hand as he offers a broad smile.

Sweater Boy tilts his head to the side. “No,” he responds, “I don’t believe we have.” He shakes Sirius’s hand, his skin calloused and dry. Sirius thinks about the Sweet Pea scented hand lotion he brought, and regrets that it is packed away in the bowels of his suitcase, leaving him unable to offer it. (Whether Sweater Boy accepts or declines the offer would be a reliable sign pointing to his sexuality.)

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius sees Ginger Spice look from him to Sweater Boy, roll her eyes, and walk off. Sirius thinks he hears a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort coming from her direction, but discards the information to focus on the more pressing business sitting in front of him.

Sirius looks for a chair around him that he can pull up, but when none are visible he settles for sitting on the floor. He leans back on his arms that he hopes brings about an attractive elongation of his torso.

Sweater Boy is looking at him like one looks at an overlarge dog, or a toddler still learning how to use its legs.

“So, what’s a pretty boy like you doing in a place like this?” Sirius asks. 

Sweater Boy’s lips twitch. “The same as you, I presume. Model in front of my wide array of baking trays and rolling pins,” he responds. 

“I’m Sirius Black,” Sirius says, smile widening, and Sweater Boy’s eyes crinkle in the corners.

“Sirius Black,” he says, disbelieving. “That’s not a name you hear every day.”

Sirius has the strong desire to make Sweater Boy blush. He seems like the blushing type. “I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.”

“Remus. Remus Lupin,” says Remus Lupin, formerly known as Sweater Boy. “I know, my name’s no better. Mr. Black, has anybody told you that you need to work on your manners?”

“Only a few,” Sirius says. “So, Remus. You didn’t answer my original question.”

Remus shrugs, looking around the room. “I bake a bit. Some people tell me I’m good. I thought I’d like to see if they’re just humoring me.” He looks back at Sirius. “I’m more curious about why you’re here.”

“Why? Do my dashing good looks stand out?” Sirius asks. He’s laying it on thick, even for him.

“You look like a hooligan,” Remus says, face noticeably devoid of a blush.   
Before Sirius can provide a witty retort, or even respond with a tasteful raspberry, another frazzled intern (Sirius swears they’re multiplying) walks into the room and calls Remus out for his introductory interview.

Remus stands up. He puts his hands in his pockets and stares down at Sirius, adopting that same perplexed expression that that he had when Sirius first introduced himself.

“It was nice to meet you,” Remus says, and then he’s gone. 

In Remus’s absence, Sirius is suddenly aware of the fact that he’s sitting alone on the floor in the corner. A few of the other contestants are starting to give him looks, which he resents. He makes a show of brushing off his knees, looking for someone else to start up a conversation with, but before he can strike the intern comes back again to call him into another room. Remus is nowhere to be seen.

When the interviewer asks what he’s most excited for about the competition, Sirius thinks of brown hair and translucent pale skin.

Remus has been very interesting indeed.

*******

The rest of Friday is stuffed with interviews and staged “getting to know you” shots to supply raw footage. Usually, the contestants are told, they’ll arrive on Saturday mornings and leave the next afternoon, but the first week contains an extra night of instruction and getting familiar with the surroundings.

Sirius can’t completely remember the afternoon. The hours blur into endless streams of people rushing by him and asking questions and shining lights in his face. He had tried to balance the posh boy charm and the bad boy appeal achieved what he feels is reasonable success, if the expression on one of the camerawoman’s face when he flipped his hair over his shoulder at the end of his interview was anything to go by.

By the time he’s able to head back to his hotel room, the glamour of having cameras shoved in his face has worn off. He’s tempted by the (all expenses paid!) minibar in the corner of the room. While the chocolate bars and small bottles of cheap alcohol calls his name, they’re drowned out by the voice of Mrs. Potter reminding him that he is, in fact, here for a competition.

“Be smart,” she lectures, the cadence of her West Indian accent echoing in his mind. Sirius is struck with the sudden memory of the threshold of James’s bedroom, just days after going to live with them, hearing James try to steal some of the chicken tikki masala she’d finished making in the kitchen. His stomach growls, and he flops down on his bed.

Sirius shoves his face into the softness of the hotel sheets and thinks about all the people that are probably fucking in the rooms around him. He sends a selfie to James and Peter (separately, not in a group chat, because Peter has a Android like a heathen) to make their nights that much better (and to reduce the hollow, empty feeling in his stomach, separate from his hunger).

When no reply comes, Sirius decides to take a look at what the vending machine has to offer. He’s trying to practice what James calls “self care”, and thinks that crisps is the way to do it.

He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes there’s another person already standing in front of the machine. Remus, still dressed in his sweater and jeans, is looking at the machine as if he’s asked it a very intricate question and is awaiting its response.

Sirius slows. He’s suddenly very much aware of his own pajama pants and white shirt, but he’s not sure if it’s working for him or not.

When he arrives to the vending machine Sirius tries to lean against the glass, aiming for the “artfully dishevelled” look. His hand slips, and he has to stumble a bit to regain his footing.

Remus raises a single eyebrow. “Nice night for a walk.”

“I’ve never seen a sight so beautiful in all my days,” Sirius says, gesturing to the light bulb. “The walls so tan, the light so - so -”

“Fluorescent?” Remus supplies.

“There’s the word, my good man,” Sirius says. “What will you be ordering this evening?”

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. You?”

“Crisps,” Sirius says, “the best version of the potato.”

Remus feeds the machine money and presses a button, a crinkling thunk comes from the bottom. As Sirius watches, he reaches into the compartment and pulls out a packet of crisps.

Without warning, Remus tosses the bag towards Sirius. Sirius nearly misses it, catching it reflexively.

“You’d probably get more enjoyment out them than I would,” Remus says. “Have a lovely night.” He turns and walks back to his room, and leaves Sirius staring after him.

Sirius is tempted to shout back, “Are you calling me fat?”, but Mrs. Potter’s voice makes itself known again, tells him that he might give the wrong impression. James’s voice makes an appearance as well, reminding him that people never do stick their dick in crazy.

Sirius heads back to his room and lays on his back in the middle of the bed. His phone vibrates, but he doesn’t check it. He pushes away the feeling of being off balanced, much like the sensation of gaining his sea legs, and drifts off to sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is really a filler chapter, but I promise there will be solid progression of plot in the next one. I just needed to write 2000 words discussing flavor combinations, okay? Originally I wasn't even going to add any Remus/Sirius interaction, but then I slapped myself and decided to give the people what they want. There's only so much self indulgence I can take.
> 
> As always: all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

Sirius’s alarm wakes him at seven the next morning with an ear-splitting rendition of “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls. After letting the phone vibrate all the way through to the second chorus, he tosses his sheets to the side and, quite literally, rolls out of bed.

The next hour is rough; Sirius washes his face with shampoo and spends several minutes doing an interesting interpretive dance to put on his pants before realizing that he was trying to force them on backwards. Exhaustion and nervousness competing for dominant states of being, he heads out to the front of the hotel to wait for show-sent cabs (because the producers don’t let them call Uber, as if it’s the 90s). The other bakers - the competition, his mind supplies - lumber around him, sharing the same bleary-eyed and sleep-heavy aura.

Everyone sits up straighter, however, when they get to the baking grounds. It’s not raining, miracle of all miracles, but the air is chill and the grass wet with dew that only too recently had been frost. Sirius burrows into his jacket, the worn leather collar trapping his breath against his face, insulating it from the outside air.

Sirius plants himself at the corner of the table full of complimentary breakfast pastries. He nods to a few other participants, but is not much in the mood for talking; he settles for listening to everyone else whittle away the half hour attempting conversation only to have it end in nervous laughter.

"Are you ready?"

Sirius turns around to find Remus standing behind him. He's wearing a frayed black coat over what seems to be another sweater, and his knuckles are white against a steaming black mug.

"I've never been more ready for anything in my entire life," Sirius says. "And you?"

Remus closes his eyes and sighs. Sirius can relate.

The team of interns soon corrall the bakers into the tent. Sirius puts on the white apron handed to him and positions himself in front of his assigned baking station (third to the back, on the left). He runs his fingers over the marble countertops and wooden cabinet drawers, memorizing their texture.

At the front of the tent stand the hosts, Mel and Sue. They lean against a long, covered table, waving at the incoming bakers and the cameras. The knot in Sirius’s stomach unravels slightly at their smiling faces and matching blazers.

He then notices Mary and Paul standing on their left, gazing out over the bakers with a critical eye. The knot pulls even tighter.

Mel clears her throat. “Bakers, today you’ve got your first ever signature challenge. Paul and Mary would love for you to make your very best Swiss roll. It’s a lovely thing, and just like most other lovely things, it involves jam and bread.”

“Indeed it does,” Sue adds. “The most crucial bit is the roll, which adds the signature swirl when you cut into it. Paul and Mary will be looking for that nice clean line of jam and cake, with some interesting decoration on top. You’ve got two and a half hours, everybody.”

“Good luck,” says Mel.

“On your mark -”

“Get set -”

“Bake!” they shout in unison. Sirius grabs his wax paper and sets to work.

He’s planned a mango coconut Swiss roll, which, as he explains to the camera, had been sparked by an outrageously expensive cocktail his mum had once ordered on a holiday in Spain.

The creation of the cake itself is simple enough; Sirius whips and heats the eggs until they become thick and airy. He adds in the flour and a small bit of shaved coconut, pausing only to take off his jacket to save it from his flying flour and surprising amount of sweat.

After an anxious five minutes of kneeling in front of the oven, watching the batter solidify in the heat, the fun part begins. Sirius flips the tray over, letting the thin sheet of cake flop onto his wax paper. He leaves it to cool as he beats the coconut milk, heavy cream, and sugar. Once it's light and fluffy, and the mango jam he’s been letting set is finally thick enough to spread, he unrolls the cake. He slathers on the jam in a thick layer before adding a thin line of the coconut cream.

Sirius sticks his tongue out, squinting to watch that the filling doesn’t leak out of the sides too much when he rolls. He’s in this rather undignified position when Paul and Mary saunter over.

“How are you doing?” Mary asks.

Sirius tosses his head to flip his hair out of his eyes, but it clings onto his eyebrow. “I’ve never been better.”

“You’ve spread the jam on a bit thick, haven’t you,” Paul observes, arms crossed, head tilted to the right. “And you’re putting the cream on the inside. That's a bit unorthodox.”

“Is it?” Sirius says, feigning nonchalance. As the judges walk away, he prays to whatever deity may exist that the filling won’t turn the roll into bread pudding.

An hour later, Mel and Sue call the end of time. Sirius rests his bake on the edge of his station, fighting the urge to shield it with his arms as he would a small dog. He's quite proud of the appearance; the yellow and white filling contrasts nicely against the light brown cake, and it's topped off with a crunchy coating of the toasted coconut. 

Mary compliments him on his flavor combination, although Paul makes it clear that the roll itself is not as defined as he would have liked. After a break for lunch (an underwhelming selection of salads) Sirius is set to begin the technical challenge with a slightly inflated ego.

This ego, however, is promptly punctured when he sees their recipe.

“This is your first technical challenge,” introduces Sue. “It’s cake week, so of course this is going to be a Mary Berry recipe - Mary’s classic cherry cake.”

“Leave the cherry suspended throughout, drizzled with some icing and covered in toasted almonds,” instructs Mel.

“And make sure you make a few extra slices for us.”

“You have two hours. Good luck, bakers.”

Sirius scans the recipe. It consists of an ingredients list and three sparse steps.

“Step one: mix ingredients. That’s incredibly helpful.” He turns to the camera. "I'm shocked they're giving us this much detail right out the gate."

He settles for beating the sugar and butter together first and then hand folding in the flour. He keeps the mixture relatively thick, and pours it into the mold spoonful by spoonful, layering in the cherries rather than pouring it.

While there is a baking temperature, there is no baking time given. Sirius shifts uneasily. He’s never been very good at unstructured time management.

It’s no surprise, then, that he burns his cake. Although he reckons it’s still edible, there’s not much that can make up for the visible black crisp on the edges, regardless of how many times Sue cracks her cherry popping jokes to cheer him up.

Sirius tries to remain composed for the camera, staring into it in what he hopes will be taken as more of an homage to The Office US rather than to Shaun of the Dead, and ignores the smell of burning that’s begun to wash over the tent. He spends the remaining time dumping as much icing as he possibly can to cover the blackened edges.

“Thick icing,” Mary observes an hour later, after the bakers have placed their cakes on the front table for judging. “Very bold.”

Paul takes a bite. “Completely burnt,” he says, and shakes his head. Sirius bites the inside of his lip.

The sting of it all is worse when Greasy Asshole gets several places ahead of him. (He's not first, however; that's the one ray of light. Sirius is full of both relief and envy to see Remus get first. Mary had complimented his even distribution of cherries, nice finish, and clean edges.) (Sirius agrees, for no particular reason.)

That night Sirius turns on a terrible reality television show to try and make himself feel superior. Within five minutes he stars begin to discuss their plans for the next day’s bake sale fundraiser, and he throws the remote across the room.

The next morning the air is is fresh and refreshing, reinvigorating Sirius after a long night of repressing the last day's events. He stands in the tent and avoids eye contact with everyone, rehearsing the steps to create his collection of orange and anise flavored Victoria sponges.

He tunes out Mel and Sue during their introduction; as soon as they give permission, he sets to work. Within minutes he whisks the eggs, combines them with the sugar and flour and baking powder. When the mixture is thick enough to fall off the wooden spoon, he fills each of the baking tins and pops them in the oven.

This is where it gets dicey; he never was quite happy with the amount of time and temperature at home. He kneels in front of the oven, and against his better judgement (and every internet baking tip he’s ever read) peeks inside, the heat nearly singing his eyebrows.

After they're cooled, Sirius begins to assemble the cake. He places one slice flat on the table, on top of a tea towel; with the care of an open heart surgeon, he drizzles on the orange marmalade. He places the top half of the cake back on. Instead of sugar, as is traditional, he sprinkles on some chia seeds and drapes on a thin layer of cream, watching it run into the soft pores of the sponge.

He does decently, he supposes, with compliments to the design, but is still bitterly far from first.

“A soggy bottom,” Mary says, shaking her head, lips pursed. Sirius’s stomach twists. “I would say the seeds are a bit nontraditional, but the crunch is really quite delightful.”

“I feel like it suits you,” Paul says. “Your flavor combinations are good. Not spectacular, but very good. The orange is bright but not too bright, and the anise isn’t overwhelming, which is always a danger with herbs. The problem here is just your technical skills.”

Sirius nods, and thinks that, in general, he needs to find people other than hungry university students to give him feedback about his food. His name is not the one called for elimination, but he feels the adrenaline rush of a close brush with danger all the same.

After swallowing down some of the dry sandwiches provided and waiting for the cab to take him back to the train station, Sirius does some maths: after some fiddling with his phone's calculator, he comes to the conclusion that he's currently hovering around seventh place. This makes him feel rather hideous.

Sirius is not easily embarrassed, but his cheeks have been slightly reddened for the last day. He knows that this makes him seem sensitive and sexy, and there’s nothing wrong with a few more sensitive and sexy men in the world. In spite of this, he ducks his head as he steps into the cab, which may or may not serve the purpose of hiding his face from the other competitors (particularly Greasy Asshole, who has an irritating smirk on his face).

On the ride home, Sirius debates whether to immediately rush home to beat James for pushing him into this mess, or mainlining espresso and practicing baking basics for seventy two hours straight.

Both will do, he thinks. Both will do.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another semi-filler chapter. Sirius likes to pretend he's suave, but he very much is not; I liked writing him getting flustered in this chapter (even if he doesn't realize it). 
> 
> Get excited for the next one, my friends: not-awkward baking not-dates, here we come. 
> 
> AS ALWAYS: I am self-absorbed and doing this for my own laughs, I don't own anybody or anything written here (although I am deeply platonically in love with both Remus and Sirius), this is un-beta'd and un-Britpicked, and - most importantly - all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

Spurred by his performance the weekend before, Sirius spends the week skipping lectures in favor of researching yeast, kneading dough, and testing crust temperature.

He wouldn’t say he’s got a massive amount of experience with bread (the theme of the coming weekend). Practicing simple roll recipes had lacked appeal when triple-fudge cupcakes were a possibility. After finding himself cursing Mary Berry at all hours of the night after his sixth attempt at rye rolls, however, Sirius feels a twinge of regret for the years wasted.

It only takes two days for James and Peter to begin to avoid him; he had begun to get into the habit of thrusting his attempts on them, covered in flour, and "there's only so many carbohydrates we can eat, Pads, oh my God".

Desperate for feedback, Sirius entertains the thought of inviting over some lecture mates for free samples. He imagines the delicate crust being shoved into their vicious mouths and forgets the idea. The brutes wouldn’t give the dough the respect it deserves. (This plan would also require him to stop baking and start going to classes, which is unacceptable.)

As the days pass, last weekend’s events play in his mind, freezing and fastforwarding. The film reel replays his comments to the cameras, separates into a split-screen for technique comparisons, and slows down right before the judges take a bite of his fateful Victoria sponge.

There’s also a good portion dedicated to the memory of Remus and his iconic apple walnut cake. It was deceptively plain, undecorated except for a bit of cinnamon sugar, and apparently the most technically perfect signature Mary had ever tasted. Sirius doesn’t know whether to be impressed, aroused, or intimidated.

When Friday night comes around, the next morning looming, Sirius feels that his world is back in order. His mindset is in part thanks to Peter, who slapped Sirius in the face after being offered an English muffin for the twelfth time in a half hour.

That night James delivers one of his pep talks, made legendary after his stint as football captain in school. Sirius tunes him out at the ten minute mark, but his powerful stance on the kitchen table inspires courage anyway. The speech is followed by an obligatory listening of “Sexyback” by Justin Timberlake. Sirius allows this because although Peter has terrible taste in music (and everything else), he appreciates the contribution to their confidence ritual.

*******

The next morning, walking into the tent, Sirius breathes in the air and smells imagined bread rising. He feels balanced and prepared.

As he hoped, the signature challenge - breadsticks - is a success. What last week’s Victoria sponge lacked in design and correct texture, the beautiful golden crunch of his breadsticks and the cheesy, buttery coating more than makes up for it.

Unfortunately, regardless of James’s attempted voodoo, his technical is even more of an unmitigated disaster than the week before. The bakers are tasked with making a white bread loaf. The recipe seems straightforward, but the simplicity throws Sirius off. He had been expecting something more complex, with more room for error than a mixture of flour, butter, and yeast could give him.

Though he conquers the oven temperature, the dough is reluctant to rise to double its size, instead inflating half-heartedly. During the judging, Mary clucks her tongue at this, and also takes note of his dry crust.

“I know what you’re capable of,” she says. “I think you simply lack the experience.”

That night Sirius eats stale crisps and bitterly watches reruns of Gossip Girl. He feels like he should be upset when he realizes that he’s actually getting into the story, but figures it’s a lost cause.

Any resentment Sirius may have felt towards himself, the judges, the competitors, and the entire baking discipline at large disappears the next morning when he creates a fucking God of the showstopper. He feels a glow in his chest, thinking he may have found a specialty within the competition. Assigned to bread, most of the bakers stuck to savory, more traditional recipes. Sirius went for a strawberry and raspberry cheesecake Brioche.

“It’s certainly flamboyant,” Paul comments.

“Thank you,” says Sirius. He braces himself.

Paul takes a bite. “And the taste is lovely. The flavor combination, the texture - you’ve really done well.”

Sirius is so satisfied that he doesn’t even react when Greasy Asshole comments to the camera, “it’s a bit of a loose interpretation of bread, isn’t it?”. He’s too busy fantasizing about the possibility of his mum watching, aghast at his success and of the (admittedly overwhelming) mass of bread that ensured it.

As Sirius controls the urge to fist pump, he realizes the judges have turned their focus on Remus. Like the weekend before, he had occupied the remainder of Sirius’s awareness that wasn’t already taken by baking temperatures and kneading techniques. Throughout the weekend Remus had looked shaky and pale, even for the gloomy spring weather, but the weekend had gone well for him so far; his signature was decent and his technical brilliant as always.

Paul and Mary examine Remus’s showstopper, a pinwheel of rolls flavored with parmesan and ham. Mary calls the presentation “disappointing”, and Paul's brows furrow when he takes a bite, commenting on the blandness of the texture. Sirius feels the distinct need to remove Paul’s cowboy boots and shove them up somewhere else bland and textured.

The powers that be spare Sirius the chopping block another weekend, although for once he wasn’t concerned. This time they give the axe to a tall acupuncturist with breasts so stupendous that they make Sirius question his sexuality.

After the last judging session, the remaining contestants stand with their bags in the front of the hotel, waiting for the cabs to arrive before they leave. After he plops down his small bag, slightly wincing, Remus shoots his (irritatingly charming) sideways smile at Sirius.

Within the span of several seconds Sirius compares their areas of performance (Sirius's success at the showstopper as compared to Remus's technical talent), pictures Remus’s distractingly perfect collarbones, and begins to brew up an idea.

This idea morphs into a full fledged plan over the next week, taking shape in between Sirius catching up on uni work and Googling how exactly one creates a Baked Alaska.

The third weekend is desserts - a broad title for a wide range of bakes. Sirius does decently, hovering between a frustrating fourth and sixth place with ever bake. His signature tiramisu and showstopper baked alaska did their job, although he was wary of straying too far from the most common flavor combinations. Even his technical, a chocolate roulade, went unexpectedly well. While rolling the chocolate cake into a swirl, trying to avoid smudging from the thick cream coating the center, he made more than a few cracks; but the icing sugar he dusted along the outside was enough to make it look presentable.

Remus, however, is off his game. He’s paler than the week before, staring down the cameramen whenever they focus on the shaking of his long, thin fingers as he pours the chocolate roulade batter into his Swiss tin. While preparing his Baked Alaska, Remus’s ice cream refuses to set. Mary shakes her head in her signature severe, disappointed way, and Sirius sends prayer to Betty Crocker that someone has done worse.

Luckily, Remus’s bake is nothing compared to the youngest contestant, the flustered sixteen year old (whom Sirius has dubbed Teen Genius). After spilling salt in her marscarpone, she had completely lost her head and dumped her tiramisu in the trash. Sirius breathes out an audible sigh of relief when she’s eliminated, and only feels a tiny bit bad about it.

(Unfortunately, Greasy Asshole isn’t gone, either. Ginger Spice is still going strong, as well, though Sirius hasn’t tried prodding her too much; she and Remus seem to be having some kind of banter going on. Which is fine, obviously, Sirius is not even paying attention to it. Whatever.)

Sunday afternoon, after the bakers finish their complimentary lunches and prepare to leave, Sirius steels himself to broach Remus about the plan he’s been hatching.

“Hi,” Remus says, muted, as Sirius sidles up next to him.

Sirius beckons him over away from the crowd, and Remus follows. Once they're out of earshot of the rest of the bakers, Sirius begins.

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” he begins. Remus blinks.

“I’ve watched your other bakes, and they’re really good, especially the technical, which you’re brilliant at. Like, last week, the biscuits? Brilliant! Where did you get the idea of adding onion? I’ve never liked onion, I had this terrible onion and pepper sandwich when I was young and it put me off it for life. Not to say that the onion in your biscuit was bad, obviously.”

Remus is still staring at him.

“Anyway. You’re good, and I think I’m pretty decent myself, particularly the showstopper. But I’m shit at the technical, and to be completely honest, yours needs a little work.” Backtrack. “I mean, you’ve not gotten the best scores on it. I mean, not that they’re bad. Just a bit - limited. You know,” Sirius says. “Maybe we could help each other out.”

After the first few seconds of silence Sirius’s fingers start running over the hem of his shirt. It looks like storm clouds are gathering behind Remus’s face.

“You want to tutor me on my showstopper bakes, because they're a bit limited,” Remus repeats. “And you want me to tutor you on technical. Even though you’re my opponent. And it’s cheating.”

“It’s not technically cheating.” Sirius bounces rapidly on the balls of his feet. “It’s - consensual, so it’s fine. No one even has to know.” Sirius did not, in fact, take a good look at the rulebook the producers gave him, or even listened to the long presentation they all received on contest ethics on the first day. To be fair, it is fine. Probably.

Remus rubs the bridge of his nose. “No, Sirius,” he sighs. “I got this close to getting cut this weekend, and I can’t jeopardize this.”

Except for instances involving sex and drugs, Sirius was never one to accept "no" for an answer. And - regardless of what his mother and several ex-boyfriends may say - Sirius is most definitely not a coward, even though Remus does look rather threatening.

Remus turns to walk away, but Sirius intercepts him.

“This is a mutually beneficial arrangement!” Sirius says. “We both get good baking experience, which we need. We can set up plans, or something, to keep our ideas secret from each other. And we’re both doing something technically possibly maybe frowned upon, so it’s not like we can rat each other out. If anything, think of it as a charity case. I really am hopeless at the technical.” He tries to angle his cheekbones to the weak sunlight streaming down through a gap in the clouds, hopefully adding to his persuasive ability.

“You won’t stop until I say yes, will you,” Remus says. It's not a question.

“Some call it pigheadedness, I prefer tenacity,” Sirius says. Remus’s lips are still pressed tight, but the corner of his eyes crinkle almost imperceptibly.

“Okay," Remus says. “Fine. But only because this is charity.” Sirius cheers. “You do realize that this is most likely completely against the rules?”

“To the select few such as ourselves, rules are nothing but suggestions,” Sirius says, much more surefooted. People should let him get his way all the time. It works out better for everyone involved.

Remus shakes his head. “If we get caught, I’m telling them you coerced me into this under threat of blackmail.”

“Whatever gets you through the day, my man,” Sirius says, and stops walking. He’s gotten slightly-enthusiastic, decently-informed consent, and now it’s time to seal the deal.

“So this week do you want to meet at my place or yours? We’re only a few minutes apart.” Remus glances at him with widened eyes, and Sirius clarifies. “I overheard some interns talking about your interview segment - really bad security on their part, now that I think of it. I promise this was an accident and not stalking.”

(It really had been an accident; Sirius had gone to shove as many free tea bags into his pockets as he could when he overheard a group of interns double checking the contestants’ contact information. He does not mention that as soon as he heard Remus’s name he continued picking up the same teabag over and over and putting it back down again until they had finished.)

“You are definitely a serial killer,” Remus says as he grabs Sirius’s phone out of his hands. Sirius raises his eyebrows. “But I gave you my word. I’ll text you my address. And I’ll definitely have backup waiting for you, in case you try to kill me. Come at 8.”

The game is on!” Sirius exclaims, and Remus chuckles.

Sirius waves to him as he gets into his cab, satisfied.

As he sits in his own cab, Sirius reviews the weekend. Not only had he baked a magnificent showstopper; he made concrete plans for lessons on how to ace this baking competition with a possible future lover (because come on, Remus is most definitely exuding queer vibes. Sirius doesn’t like to stereotype, but Remus wears sweaters and likes to bake. If he doesn’t love men Sirius will have a lot of yelling to do at the universe.)

Even if he gets eliminated the next week, he thinks, at least he may have gotten a blowjob out of it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for postponing Friday's update - a paper crept up on me this weekend. Believe me, I would have much preferred working on this. 
> 
> In this chapter I basically throw in all of my Remus head canons and maybe, possibly mention werewolves. (I couldn't resist.) It's kind of a hot mess, but I love it. Also - thank you so much for your comments! Even if I don't reply, I read all of them and feel extremely validated.
> 
> AS ALWAYS - I don't own anything, I am a fanfic-loving fool, all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!!

The next few days pass in a haze, full of catching up on lectures and persuading James and Peter to move on to testing pie fillings. (Sirius would try them himself, but decides he needs to make up for his weekends of binge eating. He may not have much to offer society, but at least he has his muscles.) In the blur of tart testing and pie preparation, Remus’s invitation nearly fades to the back of Sirius’s consciousness. 

Nearly.

Sirius wakes up on Wednesday afternoon to the ghost of a tension headache. He contemplates getting stoned in preparation for the evening ahead, but doesn’t know if Remus disapproves of marijuana or has some terrible respiratory allergy that will kill him if he smells the tiniest bit of cannabis.

After spending a half hour trying on half of his shirts and all of his pants, Sirius settles on a pair of jeans (dark wash, skinny) and a short-sleeved shirt (purple, v-neck). He then spends another fifteen minutes choosing the right pair of socks.

He steers his bike down a row of side streets, coming to a stop in front of a set of flats much smaller and much shabbier than his own. He parks and hops off, removing his helmet and shaking out his hair until it’s a little less glued to his forehead and a little more carelessly windswept. 

Sirius sends the fateful _i’m here :)_ text, because he doesn’t think his nerves can take using an actual intercom. Remus sends back a thumbs up emoji - _inscrutable_ , Sirius thinks - and buzzes him in. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sirius says when Remus opens the door.

“The world’s a small place,” Remus says. “He’s wearing a sweatpants and a thin black cardigan over a Sonic Youth shirt. Sirius just about swoons.

“You can put your jacket and things on the table,” Remus says. “I just want to put a record on.” He disappears into a back hallway.

Sirius absorbs the room that he’s standing in. The kitchen is cramped but undeniably _cute_ , with a long white counter and low wooden chairs tucked haphazardly around a small, scratched table. He feels like he’s just walked into the kitchen of a housewife from the 1950s, and makes a note to ask Remus whether this is his doing.

Sirius pokes his head into the pantry to see what secrets Remus and his roommates may have hidden there (taking care to shield his eyes and “accidentally” bump the door open to maintain plausible deniability). There’s several tubs of flour and sugar and cereal boxes, a few cans of beans, and one lonely bag of rice. Sirius wasn’t expecting anything to begin with, but is relieved all the same at the lack of signs pointing to a pile of dead bodies or sex dungeon or secret cellar for werewolf transformations.

In the absence of scandalous sex toys or counterfeiting equipment, Sirius turns around and stares down the hallway Remus disappeared into. Through an open doorway Sirius can see the other man fiddling with a record player sitting on a desk. Surrounding his socked feet (again, Sirius swoons) are piles of books. Even from several yards away, the enormity of the amount of books in the room suddenly impresses itself upon Sirius, stacks shoved in old shelves that look seconds from collapsing into a pile of splinters, tucked into rows in between the blue blanketed mattress and the wall. For a young man, Sirius thinks, Remus sure does live like a reclusive librarian. (There is _no way_ this man is straight. Reclusive librarianism is basically gay culture.)

He also notices that the books have spread into the kitchen like creeping vines. Tucked under the table are chemistry and physics and maths textbooks that look like something the majority of the world would consider a punishment to read. There’s also a decent amount of cookbooks, interestingly. (Sirius didn’t think people still bought cookbooks. For all his baking experience, he doesn’t think he’s used one in his life. He briefly wonders if Remus knows about the internet.) There are also classics spread sporadically throughout the heap - Dickens and Bram Stoker and, Sirius is pleased to see, several by Plato that he picks out from the pile.

It’s one of these titles he’s examining when Remus comes back.

“Plato. I like it,” Sirius says, trying hard not to act like he’s been caught rustling through Remus’s underwear drawer. Remus has this way of looking at him that makes him feel like he’s just made a terrible invasion of privacy just by being there. (I’ll invade your privacy, Sirius thinks, and then mentally slaps himself.)

“You’ve read it.” Remus doesn’t say it like a question, but his eyebrow tilts up enough for Sirius to consider it offensive. He clutches the book to his chest.

“I’m studying philosophy,” Sirius sniffs. “Of course I’ve read it.”

Both of Remus’s eyebrows are raising again, his eyes wide. He makes a sort of choking noise, and Sirius is halfway to the Heimlich maneuver before he realizes that Remus is laughing.

“What?” Sirius demands. Remus has never laughed this hard in front of him.

“It’s just - of course,” Remus says. “Of course you’re studying philosophy, why not. A philosopher who bakes and rides a motorcycle.” He closes his eyes. “This is fine.”

Sirius isn’t really sure how to take this. “I’m an intellectual,” he says, miffed.

Above the muffled sounds of Remus’s chuckles, Sirius can hear the sound of the Stooges echoing from the hall. (Huh. He would have pegged Remus as more of a Joni Mitchell kind of guy.)

“Shit, Remus. Plato and Iggy Pop? You’re my dream come true.”

Remus clears his throat, waves him off. “Okay,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s get started, I guess?”

“Lead the way,” Sirius says.

“So this weekend is pies and tarts, and they’ve already given us the prompt for the signature which is a pie, so I would bet that the technical is going to be some really obscure tart recipe. At least, that’s what is was two seasons ago. Besides, there’s only so many comments about soggy bottoms in pies that Mel can make,” Remus says. “I’m assuming you’ve made tarts before? I don’t think it would be that difficult, although cutting the butter into the flour is always challenging.”

“I’m not that inexperienced,” Sirius says, although compared to Remus’s apparently encyclopedic knowledge, he has the same amount of baking experience as the creator of Twinkies. Cutting the butter, what the fuck.

“Good. Grab the ingredients for just a blueberry tart, I’ve got a bunch for practicing in the fridge. I could watch how you’re doing it and point out mistakes. I’m quite good at tarts, I think,” Remus says, and there’s definitely a touch of pride in the way he lifts his chin. It makes Sirius smile.

“All right, but I’m not writing anything you say down,” Sirius says, and Remus sighs. Sirius interprets this as a sign of affection.

Sirius is distracted from his mission of seduction by the fact that making a technically perfect fruit tart is _fucking hard._ Several times Remus corrects him on the time he spends kneading the dough and the temperature at which he simmers the berries on the stove. At one point, the record stops playing and Remus excuses himself to change it. Looking up from stirring his cornstarch into the pan of berries, Sirius hears the opening piano chords to “Banquet” stream into the kitchen.

“I knew you were a Joni Mitchell fan,” Sirius says triumphantly. “I called it." 

“I don’t even want to know how you came to that conclusion,” Remus says, shaking his head. “She’s a legend.”

“She’s no Madonna, but she’s decent,” Sirius says. He punctuates his words with a wave of his whisk, accidentally flinging berry juice around the kitchen. Remus throws a dish towel at him.

The rest of the experiment goes by well, Remus pointing out a few more technical errors. After a half hour of cooling in the fridge, Remus takes out the tart and examines the crust.

“Nicely done,” he compliments. “And a perfectly baked bottom.”

Sirius giggles. Remus ignores him.

Holding a knife above the tart, Sirius hesitates.

“Have the post-bake hesitation?” Remus asks, seeing the wistful expression on Sirius’s face. “I imagine it’s like sending your kids off to school for the first time.”

“It’s more like murder, I think,” Sirius says. He cuts himself a slice, closing his eyes to savor the taste. “And the bloodshed was worth it.”

They finish the tart together, sat around the table, picking at it with their fingers. Sirius can’t recall what they talked about, but remembers their hands touching exactly three times.

It’s nearly eight when Sirius’s phone buzzes.

_Where r U bitch!!!! Xoxo Prongs_ shows up in black letter on his screen.

“Shit,” Sirius says, looking at the clock. “God damn it.”

“What?” Remus says.

Sirius shakes his head. His phone vibrates again.

_I will cry if ur not here in 5 min. tears r already streamin down worms face._

Sirius waves his hand in the air helplessly. “I’m late for a - thing. Roommate obligations.” He had completely forgotten about James and Peter’s monthly movie night in. Someday, Sirius thinks, the three of them will realize that they’re not actually in a polyamorous relationship, but that day is not today. “I know that sounds really vague, but I promise it’s a real excuse. We didn’t have time for your signature practice. Shit. Should I come tomorrow?”

Remus shakes his head.

“I’ll come bearing takeout,” Sirius offers.

“I have to practice by myself,” Remus says. “And don’t misunderstand, but - really I’d rather see how I do on my own.”

“You did me. I have to return the favor somehow,” Sirius says, and he doesn’t realize how it comes out until he’s already said it and notices the almost foreign sensation of wanting to sink through the floor. Double meanings are only fun when he intends them.

Remus, bless him, gives no indication that he’s picked up any euphemism, besides a slight twitch of his lips. “It’s a compliment to my own baking skill, if anything. And I don’t like not helping people, when I can.” Sirius pouts. “Really, it’s fine. And I think I’m a bit dead on my feets anyways, so.“

It’s true; Remus had sunk into a chair within the first hour long ago, dictating orders from a distance, and the circles underneath his eyes look a deeper purple.

“Of course,” Sirius says, and bows. “Thank you for letting me into your humble abode.”

“ _Mi casa es su casa_ , and all that,” Remus says, and waves, his shirt falling to the side and revealing the meeting of his delicate neck and sharp collarbones.

  
If Sirius seems a bit distracted during their second watching of _Wayne’s World_ , the boys chalk it up to the emotional rollercoaster of the competition and let it go.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for lack of updates. This is probably my favorite chapter I've written so far, so I hope it makes up for the delay :)
> 
> As always - I own nothing, I am illiterate, Sirius is super gay and so am I, this is unedited and written for my own amusement, all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

That Saturday morning, elbow deep in a risky berry-and-chia-seed pie filling, Sirius feels more English than he ever has in his life. The smell of crust in the air, the taste of that morning’s tea on his tongue, and the muffled cursing coming from the baker on his right nearly make him proud enough to start singing "God Save the Queen".

Sirius feels faint, high on an unexpected wave of patriotism and Remus's technical instruction. There are worse feelings.

When Mary and Paul applaud his pie concoction, Sirius notices for the first time that his technical bake comes out on top of Remus’s. His heart swells at the same time a thread of guilt winds its way in, like an irritating parasite. He considers going up to Remus about it, but doesn’t want to offend him, especially when it’s his intense workshop in the middle of the week that helped him. It occurs to him that he also has no idea what he would say.

In the hotel room that night Sirius considers knocking on the door of Remus's room. He had been looking better than last week, with color in his cheeks, making wry comments to the cameras when waiting for his bakes to get out of the oven. Maybe he would be up for talking about the day. They could have a laugh at how Greasy Asshole’s pie sunk through right in the center and his tart left his eyebrows singed (although he was somehow able to make another one in time, the bastard. Sirius suspects dark magic).

Sirius spends an extensive amount of time imagining what would happen if he knocked, but he doesn't. He tells himself it's out of consideration for Remus's rest, and not anything to do with the fluttering in his stomach.

The next day the showstopper is wonderful for Sirius. He creates a three-tiered, towering set of pork pies, complemented with apple and black pepper. Mary narrows her eyes at it, but after a taste nods her head and calls it "interesting".

Remus’s is s set of traditional pear pies. His lips twist as Paul calls it average. Although there’s no chance he’ll be eliminated this round - he was in the perfect middle range of scores during the weekend - his eyebrows furrow close over his eyes.

As if approaching a wild animal, Sirius walks up to Remus as he's waiting for a cab home. Before Sirius can say anything, Remus rolls his eyes. Sirius is impressed at how quickly he can move his eyeballs without them  falling right out.

“Fine,” Remus says. Sirius stays silent. “Can I take you up on your offer?”

Sirius claps. “I thought you’d never ask, my dear boy!”

Remus cracks a smile, although the tension in his shoulders is still present. Sirius makes it his goal to bring his shoulders away from his ears for more than five minutes at a time.

Sirius's scheme - his big, overarching plan of both seduction and show success - is working perfectly.

“My plan is working perfectly,” Sirius says. “I’ve done this all to see the insides of your beautiful walls one more time.”

“I want to see where you live,” Remus replies. “I need to get out of my flat sometimes.”

“Uh,” Sirius says. He thinks of the semi-sentient mounds of _something_ hidden in the corners of the kitchen, the empty crisp packages blanketed by a layer of old smelly clothing, the inevitable Spanish inquisition-style interrogation that James will conduct, and Peter’s general existence.

Remus raises a single eyebrow.

“Sure,” Sirius blurts. It’s inevitable; Remus will be another small speck in the sea of people criticizing his lifestyle choices.

On the train ride home, Sirius thinks about Remus. This is becoming a not unusual state of mind, but the idea of Remus seeing where Sirius lives has made his stomach decide to become a masterclass gymnast. He’s definitely _interested_ in Remus, because Remus is _interesting._ He wears sweaters and bakes and has never once blushed in front of Sirius and listens to The Stooges and looks like he could do with a solid week spent sleeping and being fed.

As with most things, Sirius had meant to do Remus cheerfully and quickly. He is getting the uncomfortable inkling that he is leaning more towards the “buy a dog together and open a bed-and-breakfast” side of things, which is he is not currently equipped to handle.

Sirius switches to a different, less troubling train of thought. Before they had left the bakers received next week’s theme: traybakes. Sirius has never been more enthused. He _loves_ traybakes, second only to crepes. He’s been making brownies for _years._ He begins planning flavor combinations out in his head.

It is only at the stop before his that it strikes him that it’s possible that he’s fallen into complacency with his brownie bakes. He’s become quite attached to this competition, lately, and if he’s kicked out by one of his favorite baking opportunities, he doesn’t know where he’ll turn.

With that in mind, he spends the first half of the week designing and perfecting his pumpkin spice brownies (because he’s fucking gay, sue him), as well as catching up on homework. He also balances a paper due Wednesday morning for an 8am class, and even a well-timed wink at the secretary in the scheduling office offered him no help). In short, he is speeding towards _frantic,_ and forgets that Remus is coming over at all until he receives a text late Wednesday morning.

_be there around 2,_ his screen says, from a number saved as “Your New Favorite Baking Buddy”.

Sirius looks at the clock, sees the hour hand hovering above the eleven, and resumes breathing.

He attempts to clean, and gets as far as opening the storage closet before he realizes that they don’t have so much as a broom. He checks the cabinets under the sink to find them in a similar state. 

In a moment of unsettling self awareness, he reconsiders every decision that led him to this state of being without access to a spray disinfectant. He settles for wiping down any flat surfaces he can find with water and paper towels. He contemplates picking up the clothing strewn everywhere, but decides that he lives with two other young men and their untidiness represents their masculinity or virility or some other sexy characteristic that can excuse the general squalor.

James watches this entire process from the couch, his black hair sticking up in the back, glasses askew. He says nothing, dipping his hand into a tin of store bought biscuits, the white of the container contrasting against the brown of his skin. This biscuit betrayal offends Sirius almost enough to make him forget the fear that his presence inspires: a thoughtful James means trouble on the horizon.

(Sirius takes a moment to appreciate that he has nothing to worry about from Peter, who had made himself scarce the past few weeks to avoid any more of what he called “baking-induced hysteria”.)

Sirius can feel James’s eyes trained on him, and can hear the munching of the stale tinned cookies that Sirius could make in an instant.

In the end, it’s the steady chewing sounds that do him in.

 “I’m infatuated with my competition,” Sirius says. He throws a pair of dirty socks at James. “Are you happy now, asshole?”

James throws his hands in the air, batting the socks away. “I knew it!” he yells, the last of the cookie crumbs spraying over the couch. Sirius winces. “You always clean when you want to get laid. I think it’s an anxiety thing.”

“I do _not,_ ” Sirius says. He pats down a pillow until it's fluffed to his satisfaction. James raises an eyebrow. “And besides, I’m not getting laid. Most likely. We’re having baking lessons. This week is tray bakes.”

“The plot thickens,” James grins. “Things are getting spicy. I approve. Is it that guy who’s house you went over last week?”

“The very one,” Sirius says. He knew he would never have been able to hide anything for long from James, of all people, but his enthusiastic approval is alarming. He must make sure that James and Remus never meet.

James claps his hands and stands up. “This is fantastic news,” he says, and begins to pace. “When’s he coming?”

Sirius stops him with two hands on his shoulders.

“Prongs,” he says. “If you talk to us - look at us - so much as breathe near us, I’ll ring your mum.”

James rolls his eyes. “Oh, Jesus help me, what ever shall I do if you tell Mummy?”

“And I’ll tell her about the fifth year incident.” The fifth year incident remains in infamy to this day, though they rarely speak of it. Sirius barely dares to think of it, though he can remember it involving James, a bunny costume, and a cubicle in the girl’s toilets.

James’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

“I very much fucking would.”

James pales, and bows out of Sirius’s hold.

“You’ve beaten me, you backstabbing, blackmailing son of a bitch,” he says. “Whatever. I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there. Make sure to dial up the moans, though, it gets lonely in there.”

Sirius pushes him out of the room, and very nearly out the window.

As soon as he ushers James out of the room, there’s a quiet _one-two-three_ set of raps on the door. Sirius opens it with the hesitation that he would show if he was welcoming in a dragon, a debt collector, or his mother. As it is, the figure behind it is none of those things.

Remus stands there, in a maroon sweater over a gray button down and big black combat boots. (Sirius almost comes right there and then.)

“Welcome to my humble abode!” Sirius says, sweeping his hand out to the hallway and bowing so low that his hair reaches the ground.

“I’m honored,” Remus says, and he makes a show of stepping over the threshold. Sirius grins at him, and Remus looks around, head swiveling almost comically.

“Um, I’ll give you the tour?” Sirius says. He hopes that the smell of sweat and old food are a masculine turn on and not a mark of their housekeeping incompetence. Without moving from his spot on the floor, turning on one foot, he points. “That’s the couch, that’s a television, that’s the bathroom, over there are the bedrooms, and _this_ ” - he gestures to the kitchen - “is where the magic happens.”

“I don’t know if I can stand the majesty,” Remus says. He follows Sirius into the middle, moving to lean onto the marble counter.

“So we’re doing traybakes this week, which happens to be one of my specialties, actually. One of the first things I baked,” Sirius says, getting everything out of the pantry that they’ll need. He’s trying to be _proactive_.

“Really?” Remus asks.

“Yup. I assume you know all the basics behind traybakes? And biscuits. We’ll work on biscuits first. You know more about those most likely.”

“Fats are combined with chemical leaveners to melt and leave behind small air pockets, which the leaveners then use to release gases that add lift,” Remus says, with the air of someone reciting memorized information. He begins to gather the measuring cups. At the look on Sirius’s face, he smiles. “I liked chemistry in school. Now I study English, because I want to remain unemployable.”

“English is good! English is great,” says Sirius, who read a total of two of the required books in all of secondary school.

“Anyway, you didn’t tell me more about your introduction to baking,” says Remus, who is looking through the fridge. “Oh, thank God, you have heavy cream. I was worried about the edibility of the contents in here.”

“Why do you need cream?” Sirius asks. “And anyway, they weren’t the introduction, those were crepes. That’s a story for another day. But traybakes were pretty simple to make, and I could persuade the - um, the people at my house to help, and when I went away to school I could get into the kitchens. My charming good looks, and all. And it kind of spiraled from there.”

“I like cream biscuits more than ones with butter,” Remus says. “That’s a brilliant way of learning. I did the whole ‘Scottish grandmother passing down traditions bit’, myself.” He looks at the dough he’s stirring, adds some more cream. “By the people at your house, you don’t mean - the _help_?”

Well, there’s nothing for it now. “That’s exactly what I mean. Maids, cooks, the whole bit,” Sirius says, trying very hard to be flippant. “I was posh as can be. It’s a miracle I learned what flour was at all.”

Remus smiles, but his brow furrows. Sirius watches him as he finishes his biscuits.

“That was the warm up,” Remus says. “I’ve practiced my signature already, and I usually get good marks, so I’m not so worried. I bet the technical is biscuits, which I’m alright at. It’s just - the showstopper. I don’t know what it is. I want to do toffee. Is toffee too temperamental? I’d like to mix with chocolate but it’d be too chewy.”

“See, that’s the thing!” Sirius exclaims. “You’ve got to take risks, live large.” He takes the spoon from Remus’s hand and points it at him. “Get messy sometimes.”

Remus is looking in the pantry, his arms crossed, one hand tapping his chin. All Sirius can see is the fabric of the cardigan stretched over his narrow shoulders.

“Don’t you feel like that’s a bit easy for you to say?” Remus says. “With your money and your - smile, or whatever.”

“My smile?” Sirius asks. His small intestine is twisting. “Why, Remus, I’m flattered.”

“You know what I mean,” Remus says. “Has anything ever not worked out for you?” His tone is light, but the question feels barbed.

“Well,” Sirius says, just as lightly. “There’s a reason I’m living here sharing a flat with two of my mates instead of a manor in Buckinghamshire.” He opens a drawer and shuffles through it, looking for nothing in particular. “Being gay is a bit counterproductive to producing an heir. It didn’t exactly make me the favorite child. 

“Oh,” Remus says. He moves back over to the counter and begins to whisk his ingredients. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all well that ends well,” says Sirius, who is thinking of the look on Regulus’s face as Sirius walked out the door for the last time. “They were rubbish parents, anyway, and worse bakers. Even if they had ever attempted making anything of their own, it would have been the worst punishment of all.” Remus laughs, and Sirius is glad to feel that the tension lifts.

Remus’s bake comes out much better, Sirius coaching him through the combination of toffee and chocolate. As soon as they finish, James peeks his head through the door so that only Sirius can see him. He widens his eyes and sends mournful looks at the tray of toffee-topped double-chocolate brownies (which are pretty stupendous, Sirius has to admit). Sirius pretends to eat five in one go and instead stealthily slides them across the floor to James, who eats them with delight. Remus looks at Sirius like he’s an idiot, but asks no questions. Sirius considers this a success.

Although Remus says that he isn’t hungry, Sirius looks at his collarbones, which, although sexy and biteable, are much too prominent. He decides that he needs to fatten Remus up. and offers to get takeout. (He says a silent goodbye to his own beautiful, beautiful abdominal muscles.)

Remus accepts, and suddenly they’re watching some terrible black and white movie on weeknight telly and sucking up curry.

“I’m a good cook, as well,” Remus says, out of nowhere. “I like the product of baking more, which is why I do it. But the process of cooking is easier. You can throw anything in a pan and it generally turns out alright.”

Sirius gasps like Remus stabbed him. “ _Remus,”_ he cries, grabbing his arm. “How could you not tell me this about you? You made me eat my fifth curry this week when we could have had your amazing home cooked meal?”

Remus rolls his eyes, but doesn’t shrug him off. “I would have, but you're saving most of the food for practice. The only other edible thing you have in your entire kitchen is alcohol.”

Sirius waves his arm in the air, like shooing away flies. “Details, details.”

As the movie draws to a close, the impending darkness outside heightens Sirius's awareness of Remus's presence next to him. The other man is sitting crosslegged less than two feet away from him, and Sirius is counting the layers of clothes separating their knees.

Remus excuses himself soon after, but looks Sirius in the eye when he says goodbye and smiles fully, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sirius feels rooted to the floor, and stands there long after Remus shuts the door behind him.

  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So all my head canons about Remus and Sirius's emotional problems come into play here. BONDING, my guys. And intense Sirius/James friendship moments. What dolls.
> 
> I'm busy planning for NaNoWriMo right now, so that's why updates are a little slow. Don't worry though, the rest is written, I just want to keep editing it until I think it's a little less garbage-y. Only the best for you, my friends!
> 
> Blah blah copyright I am a poor student who owns nothing but many many books, no one has edited this but me, hope y'all enjoy, AND AS ALWAYS: all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

That Saturday morning, Sirius taps his fingers in a one-two rhythm against the wooden cutting board resting in front of him. It's an impatient manifestation of the odd mixture of relief and grief at being over halfway done with the competition.

Sirius looks up and towards the left, and Remus flashes him a smile from his own baking station. The white of his apron is bright against the deep maroon of his shirt. (No sweater today; as the weather gets warmer, the heat of the baking tent is more oppressive than welcoming.)

Being over halfway through with the competition means only three weeks left to have a real reason to keep talking to Remus, Sirius thinks. That is, he reminds himself, as long as they don't get knocked out this round. Sirius pulls his apron over his head, ties the strings behind his back, and braces himself.

Sirius’s signature of stacked rows of chocolate, cherry and hazelnut brownies end up the exact right balance of gooey and firm. Following that success, the technical is, in fact, the elusive biscuit. The sparse-as-usual recipe requests cream instead of butter, like Remus had practiced. Sirius tries to catch his eye to non-verbally berate him for somehow being able to see the future. Remus holds out for a solid minute, then finally make eye contact and _winks_ , the smug little bastard.

Sirius’s biscuits are alright, if a bit dry, and Remus’s are perfect. The showstopper is good, a tower of biscuits; Sirius settling in second and Remus only a few places behind. Sirius is proud of his improvement but thinks that Remus could do better - and from Remus’s displeased or disappointed twist of his lip, he knows it too. There’s still something holding him back, and Sirius is not happy with it. Brilliant, talented, chemistry-and-English-loving Remus deserves to create a product that he’s proud of. The only solution, Sirius thinks, is to demand more lessons, and so he does.

On Wednesday morning, Sirius gets a phone call.

“I’m sorry, Sirius, but I really can’t come to your place today,” says Remus. Sirius’s heart sinks to his toes. "I would love to, I promise.”

“How could you abandon me in my hour of need?” Sirius cries, distantly registering his embarrassment about being this level of crushed. He has to remind himself that he has not actually been stood up on a date, only a pudding-making practice session.

“I’m sorry,” says Remus. His voice drags. "I'm not feeling well."

“It’s alright,” Sirius says, tone softening. “Do you need me to come over? I can come over. If you’re ill then you shouldn’t be straining yourself. I can get blankets and food.” He pauses, tries to think of what he could bring. “The edible kind.”

Remus laughs. “I appreciate it. Honestly, this isn’t anything unusual for me. I’ll keep you in my memory, though.”

“Be sure you do,” says Sirius. His imagination strikes with a vision of skinny, pale Remus shaking like a leaf under a threadbare blanket, crying out for water with no response. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He also imagines the look on Remus’s face if Sirius were to pull up on his bike with a bag of groceries and the entire local medical clinic staff.

“I told you, I’m fine,” reassures Remus. “Thanks for offering.”

“Of course."

“Well,” says Remus. “I should go.”

 “Oh, yeah, sorry. You shouldn’t be on the phone talking in the first place,” Sirius admonishes. “Have a good rest.”

 “Yeah, thanks, Mum,” says Remus, and the line goes dead.

It sinks in that Sirius properly talked on the phone with Remus for the first time. He doesn’t know why this feels like a milestone in their courtship, but it does. As James walks in the door and sits on the couch, Sirius decides to lay on the floor and have a think.

“I’m having a think,” he says, staring up at the ceiling.

James snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Staring up at the ceiling, Sirius faces his options. He could contemplate his sudden wave of anxiety after receiving a call from Remus and hearing his voice on the phone. He could also bury it deep inside and watch an entire season of _Gossip Girl._ While the latter option remains appealing, he hears Mrs. Potter’s voice in his ear berating him about emotional intelligence or something else that she’s read about in women’s magazines. Sighing, he steels himself to look at the messy bits. 

The competition is already halfway over, but the phone call cemented for Sirius how much he genuinely _likes_ Remus. He likes hearing his voice on the phone and being sighed at and making him laugh, and he likes his unexpected dry wit, and he likes the books in his flat and the warehouse of information he has stored in his brain. He likes the patches on his cardigans and his combat boots and the fact that he still uses records like an asshole and has the air of a very cautious porcupine. Sirius likes to bake and eat takeout with him. He really, _really_ likes Remus, in a way too inappropriate and committed for a self-proclaimed gay lothario to be having.

Sirius thinks he’s having a crisis.

“I think I’m having a crisis,” he says.

 “I could tell from the hyperventilating,” James says. He slides down from his position on the couch into a cross-legged seat next to Sirius on the floor. “Is it about baking boy extraordinaire?”

“I like him, James,” Sirius says. “I really like him, and I don’t like _anyone_ , and there are three weekends left to give me an excuse to talk to him. He wears cardigans. He’s studying English, James.” 

“Oh shit. English,” James repeats.

 Sirius groans and turns over, burying his face into the floor.  “I don’t even want to suck his dick anymore,” he says. “I mean, I do. But with, like, strings attached.”

“That’s disgusting." James clucks his tongue, and is quiet for a moment. “Let me guess. You think he’s too good for you, because you try too hard to be cool and aloof, and he has no business getting involved with someone who can’t do their laundry and who walked out on his family and who is studying philosophy with no idea what he wants to do.” Sirius says nothing. “Am I right?” 

Sirius grunts. James starts to pet his hair, like he started doing when they were twelve after Sirius asked James why his parents kissed him when they dropped him off at school.

“You, Sirius Black, are an absolute idiot,” says James. Sirius feels soothed, back in familiar territory. “Everyone’s a mess when they’re twenty. You left a shitty fucking house because you wanted to leave. You got into university. You bake like nobody’s business and have gotten this far in the competition. From what you’ve told me about him, he seems to not mind.” He keeps stroking Sirius’s hair. “You forget that other people have no idea what they’re doing, either, Pads. You’re good.”

Sirius feels a bit like he might cry, which is alarming. He thanks God, or Yahweh, or Thor, or whatever deity there is that he had the luck to sit next to James Potter on their first day of school. He clears his throat.

“You haven’t told me I’m pretty, though,” he sniffs. James stops petting, and kicks Sirius in the hip.

 “You’re gorgeous, you little shit,” he says, over Sirius’s wailing and clutching of his side. Peter walks in, looking wary.

 “Is this another cookie-related crisis?” he asks, looking at Sirius’s dramatic flailings on the floor.

“I already handled it,” James says. “We might have to restrain him, though.” He lays back down and wraps his arms around Sirius.

Peter sighs. “This is the third group hug this week. It might be a new record.” He plops himself down and entangles himself in the intertwined forms of Sirius and James. He’s long past resigned to the experience of the only straight man accompanying a duo of very tactile best friends.

Sirius thinks of Remus, and of the competition ahead, and lets himself be surrounded on both sides by his two best friends.

*********

That weekend, Remus shows up to the venue leaning on a cane.

It’s plain and brown, and Remus leans on it like he’s daring someone to say anything. He walks over to the powersuit-clad producer and initiates a quick conversation - well, more like Remus saying something and not letting her interrupt - and then continues with her to the cameramen and seems to give the same speech. Sirius watches from the other side of the lawn, reluctant to get in the way of what could actually be serious, although pangs of concern shoot through his stomach. Maybe that was why Remus canceled on him that Wednesday.

Unbidden, Sirius is bombarded with the image of a rabid dog tearing at Remus’s leg. Before Sirius can go over and see what happened, the contestants are called over to the tent, and he’s preparing for his signature bake.

Throughout the day, half of Sirius pays attention to his own bakes and the other half watches Remus out of the corner of his eye. The cameramen don’t seem to focus on his cane, but whether that’s from Remus’s conversation or his sharp looks whenever they come too close, Sirius doesn’t know.

Remus only uses it when he has to walk, resting it against the counter when he’s stationary, but the standing seems to exhaust him. His face is pale and his lips form a thin line, and he leans too much of his weight against the counter. He also, Sirius sees, takes frequent breaks to stare at the mixing bowl as if he’s forgotten what to do.

Sirius does well - not better than last week, but well nonetheless - but Remus suffers. His puddings, Mary says, are plain and have an unwelcoming sloppiness about them. Sirius can feel the disappointment radiating off of him from down the line, regardless of the bakers between them. 

At the end of the day, back at the hotel, Sirius feels a bit hesitant to talk to Remus. He decides that it’s his duty, anyway.

Sirius knocks on Remus’s door. When no immediate response comes, he calls Remus’s name.

After a minute, Remus opens the door, cane in his right hand. He looks small in his pajama pants and shirt.

“Hi, Sirius,” Remus says. He turns around and walks back to the bed, where he sits on the edge. He walks like he’s stepping on bubble wrap, and the bed sags beneath him when he sits.

“What’s with the cane?” Sirius asks, walking over and standing in front of him.

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous,” Remus says. Sirius starts to pace instead.

“Really, what happened? Did something hurt you? Were you injured? Was it an accident? Do I have to kill someone?”

“Nothing happened. There was no - there wasn’t anything, Sirius. This is what I use, sometimes,” Remus says, halfheartedly waving the cane.

“But _why_?” Sirius persists.

Remus groans. “Do you ever give up on anything?” he asks. Sirius keeps staring at him. Remus sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, fine. I have fibromyalgia. And some other shit, but that’s the big one.”

“Um,” says Sirius. He wracks his brain for anything sounding even the slightest bit similar to that word.

“It’s fine, a lot of people don’t know what it is. I’m chronically ill. I’m  basically tired all the time. And sometimes I get flares and have to use a cane, and it sucks, but. Whatever.”

“Oh,” says Sirius. He stops pacing. “Does it . . . does it hurt?”

Remus does his half smile, the right side of his mouth quirking up, but it has a bitter twinge to it. “Nearly always.” He looks at Sirius. “I don’t need you to - to pity me, or anything. I don’t need that.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Sirius.

Remus turns away, folds his hands in his lap and looks down, playing with the ragged edges of his sweater. “I’m in pain, always. And it makes me terrible to be around, a lot of the time.”

“I like being around you,” Sirius says. He chews the inside of his lip, searching for the right words. “We all have our problems. I get it.”

Remus turns his body to face him.

“Thanks,” Remus says, “but you don’t get it.” He takes a breath. “I either don’t tell anyone and have to suffer in silence or I tell everyone and they get that _look_ on their faces. Like, if I can’t walk as fast as them - they’re frustrated, but gagging themselves on how good of a person they are to wait for me. It's hard even on this show. I show up here today, and I have to work so hard to make sure the cameras don’t see and turn me into their inspiring figurehead. I can’t even practice as much as I should because my fucking hands hurt.”

Sirius starts to protest, but Remus cuts him off.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been distant, but that’s just how I get sometimes.” he says. “And you’re perfect, so I don’t even - whatever.”

Sirius blinks. “I’m really not.”

Remus stares at him. “What? You’re gorgeous - don’t pretend like you don’t know - and you had _help_ as a kid. You know what I had as a kid? I had shit, Sirius.” His tone is acerbic.

Sirius doesn’t think. “I found out last month that my mum died," he says, tone mild. "The last time I saw her, she said that she always knew I'd be a disappointment. I told her to go fuck herself, and then I left. I’ll never speak to her again, and I don’t regret it." 

Sirius hadn’t talked about that moment, not even to James. It was something rotting inside of him, and now he doesn’t know what to do with the sharpness of cold air that's taken its place.

Remus sags, like Sirius knocked the air out of him.

“I don’t want to turn this into the, oh woe is me, who had it worse kind of bullshit,” Sirius says, because he doesn’t. “It’s just - you don’t have to be a martyr, you know? Other people have suffered things, too.” He feels exhausted himself, like all the fight in him vanished. He can’t imagine how Remus feels. He sits on the edge of the big hotel bed, staring at the opposite wall. Remus shifts behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says softly. “I’m so tired, and today was a bad day. A _really_ bad day. And I know it’s not an excuse, but there it is. And I didn’t mean to say that you haven’t had a rough time.”

“I’m sorry your body hates you,” Sirius says. He crawls over to sit next to Remus.

"I'm sorry you hate your mom," Remus says. “I guess we have a lot of issues." Sirius barks a laugh. “My attempt to distance myself didn’t really work, huh.”

“I have abandonment issues,” Sirius says. “You’re stuck with me.” The tension is there, still, in the background, but quieter. Sirius thinks that if they ignore it, if he keeps Remus smiling, it will fade away completely. 

"Life sucks sometimes," Remus comments, after they're quiet for a moment.

 “You know what I do when life sucks?” Sirius asks. He grabs the remote from the bedside table. “I watch Gossip Girl. I’m sure there are reruns on somewhere.”

“I lost several dozen IQ points from hearing you say that,” Remus says, but he lays down and makes himself comfortable on the bed.

 “It’s a cinematic classic,” Sirius protests.

They fall asleep to Serena and Blair calling each other fat.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . long time no see, my friends. Luckily for you all, I have a nice long break from classes coming up and plan on finishing editing the next three chapters within an inch of their lives. I hope you all enjoy this one. I sure did.
> 
> As always, all comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!!

The first thing Sirius is aware of the next morning is a pleasant warmth against his side and an unexpected inability to breathe. He panics for a moment when his attempt to inhale fails, then realizes that he had shoved his face into the extreme softness of a pillow that is now threatening to suffocate him. He rolls over and takes a deep breath. Eyes still closed, he frowns at the sudden lack of warmth next to him. Getting his bearings, he cracks open an eye.

After a moment of sun-induced blindness, Sirius's eyes adjust to the light. Rather than the empty bed he was expecting, Remus's face presses against a pillow, his eyes closed. After another heart-stopping moment of sleep-addled confusion, Sirius feels the layers of clothing they both have got on and breathes a sigh. He's not sure if it's from relief or disappointment.

He settles for staring at Remus. His brown hair is stuck flat against his forehead, and his mouth is open enough for Sirius to hear the thin whistle of his exhalations. Sirius blinks. He hadn’t realized that Remus had freckles, and yet there they are: soft brown flecks dotting the sharp ridge of his nose. Sirius leans in closer.

He jumps back as the sound of Fergie discussing her humps blares next to him. He flails for a moment before finding his phone amidst the tangle of hotel pillows and blankets, and switches off the alarm.  He looks up to see Remus blinking blearily at him.

“Fergie?” he asks, his voice groggy with sleep. Sirius grins.

They stay in bed for another twenty minutes, laying in comfortable silence. Too soon Remus points out that they have only fifteen minutes until they need to be ready and out in front of the hotel. Sirius groans and rolls out of Remus’s bed onto the floor.

He returns to his own room when Remus threatens to throw a shoe at him.

Sirius rides in his cab alone, becoming more alert with every sip of his tea. He arrives at the competition grounds filled with mildly dulled pre-competition jitters, tipping his hat to Mel and Sue as he passes. It’s his showstopper, he tells himself as he ties his apron. He’s good at this. He turns his head to catch Remus’s eye, and Remus leans jauntily on his cane and actually  _ winks.  _ Sirius outwardly clucks his tongue and inwardly clutches his pearls.

The showstopper bake passes by in a blur of Bundt pans and sticky sweet steam rising from bubbling pots. Despite his performance the day before, Remus's sticky toffee pudding surpasses the performance of all the remaining bakers. Mary herself complimented the density of the cake, the shine of the crumbled caramel and nut decorations on top. Sirius is filled with pride, and it’s not from his (admittedly amazing) strawberry and white chocolate sponge pudding.

(On top of the pride, at a niggling thought floating on top of his brain, Sirius thinks that he doesn't mind if Remus comes out ahead of him. Another voice that sounds suspiciously like his brother's tells him that he's an idiot to stop viewing this as the competition it is. An even tinier voice hovering somewhere in the middle whispers that he would rather Remus win than anyone else, himself included.)

(The loudest voice at the forefront tells him to shut the fuck up.)

The final judging ends with the removal of a woman who burnt the bottom of every single one of her weekend's bakes. Sirius doesn't know her name, but thinks she looks like the sort of person who would put eyelashes on her car's headlights, so he's not too torn up about it.

When the competitors migrate back to the hotel, Sirius and Remus end up back in Remus’s room. Cabs are waiting, ready to take them home, but neither of them move to pack up. It’s something about both of their successes of the day, and the way that the sunlight illuminates the crisp white lines of the hotel linen that makes Sirius feel like the day is too golden to wipe away. They lay on Remus’s bed - Sirius on his stomach, arms dangling off the edge of the bed, and Remus propped up by several fluffy pillows - and watch the dust motes float past the dusty window.

Sirius doesn’t know where to go from here. All he wants is to keep laying next to Remus, or stand or sit next to him, baking or eating takeout or watching telly or talking. The voice inside of him shouts that he has only two weeks left.

“Two weeks left,” Sirius says.

“If we don’t get kicked out next week,” Remus murmurs, his eyes half closed.

“Let’s be confident,” Sirius says. “What will you do when it's over?”

“I don’t know,” Remus says. “Keep going to classes, I guess. Working. The usual banality of existence.”

“Thanks, Nietzsche,” says Sirius. He swallows. “You’ll miss my charm and good looks.”

“I was under the impression that we would keep hanging out,” Remus says. He opens an eye. “If that’s alright with you.”

“I knew you were madly in love with me. Finally the truth comes out.” Sirius says this louder than necessary to cover the fact that a ball of light has expanded in his stomach.

Remus - both eyes open now- gives him that  _ look  _ again; the look that says he knows exactly what Sirius is on about, like he’s put him under the microscope and peeled away all his defense mechanisms.

“Sirius,” Remus says, sitting up. They stare at each other.

Sirius wants to kiss Remus right now.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Sirius says, and immediately wants to die.

Remus’s face is blank. “Do you?” he asks, although it doesn’t sound like a question. Sirius doesn’t move, only watches as Remus lets his rare smile out. It doesn’t flash like usual, quick as a lamp flickering on and off again. It spreads across his face starting from his usual right corner and growing until Sirius thinks he could count every one of his teeth.

“This is a very lucky occasion for us, because I’ve been thinking that same thing for a very long time,” Remus says, and Sirius is kissing him and tasting his chapped lips like chocolate and Earl Gray and something bitter that Sirius can’t identify and he realizes that Remus has reached his hand up and is cupping his chin, the calluses on his fingers rough against Sirius’s stubble.

When inhaling becomes a dire need more than a slight irritation, they break apart.

“That was a while coming,” Remus says. He licks his lips. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he adds, seeing Sirius’s expression.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sirius says, and his smile grows wider. “Kiss me again.”

And Remus does.

******

Sirius knows that the next week must contain something other than RemusandSirius. He has lectures to attend and bakes to prepare for and other tasks of a similarly dull nature. But even when he's forearms deep into a new pastry recipe he's testing, all he can think of is the memory of Remus’s lips on his. On Sunday night James catches him grinning and doesn’t even bother asking why, instead tackling him with a shout. Peter doesn’t make the connection, at first, but he joins in anyway.

Both Remus and Sirius have got classes and are busy preparing for the penultimate weekend; the make it or break it moment to the final round. They still make time for the traditional Wednesday afternoon visit, however. Sirius rings Remus's doorbell with more trepidation than he thinks is reasonable.

It’s -  _ nice.  _ Sirius didn’t know what he was anticipating - it’s not like they’re  _ boyfriends,  _ he tells himself. Remus has the energy to cook a delicious pasta dish, and they sit on the floor and eat from overlarge bowls with plastic forks while listening to a record from the 70s that even Sirius doesn't know. They don't mention the upcoming weekend or baking even once, but Sirius can sense that Remus is just as uneasy as he is. Instead, they put on a movie and snog on the sofa until Remus’s roommates come home. It almost makes Sirius feel ready for the weekend.

The competition has narrowed down to four, now - Sirius, Remus, Ginger Spice, and (unfortunately) Greasy Asshole.  He doesn’t know who is the next to leave; who will be one of the four to not make it to the final round. That line of thought makes Sirius queasier than he would like.

Riding to the venue on Saturday morning, his nerves are worse than even the first day of the competition. Through the window, Sirius can see the green grass and picturesque sheep that had seemed so appealing on the television screen that Crepe Saturday so many weeks ago. He prays that this is a good omen.

The bakers complete their signature bake of Danishes, whizzing by in a flurry of flour and filling. Although pastries can be notoriously finnicky, Sirius is happy with how his come out. He works on a traditional cream cheese Danish, the thin flaky dough punctuated with rivulets of filling and drizzles of white lemony frosting twisting on top of the plaits. He is able to breathe long enough to wolf down a sandwich, which he regrets immediately as his stomach churns while unfolding the technical challenge recipe. He reads the list of ingredients, realizes he's making a classic Bakewell tart, and settles into the flow.

At that judging, Sirius eyes the three other bakers. Everyone had done well that day; miracle of all miracles, there were no disasters or standout successes; for the signature, Greasy Asshole came in first, followed by Sirius, Remus, and Ginger Spice taking last. For the technical challenge, the orders are reversed; Ginger Spice coming in first, followed by Remus, Sirius, and Greasy Asshole. It really is anyone’s game.

After the technical challenge the producers detain the bakers for a longer individual interview, summing up their thoughts about the competition and their performance so far. It’s not until after 7pm that the bakers are finally able to go back to the hotel.

With the sense of a tradition in the making, Sirius knocks on Remus’s door. "I want food!" Sirius says through the door. Remus opens the door and hovers in the doorway.

"I'm not feeling going to a pub or restaurant, to be honest," he says.

"The hotel lobby?" Sirius suggests. Remus blinks, then sighs. He shuts the door behind him. "Don't look so put-upon. There’s tea in it, anyway."

“How romantic,” says Remus, deadpan, as he presses the lift button.

They both get some very greasy chips, and Sirius picks at a disappointing pre-packaged ham sandwich ("Is there any other kind?" Remus asks, the bloody vegetarian). Sirius pulls Remus down next to him into a snug loveseat in the corner of the lobby.

“Remember how this -” Remus gestures between them “- is frowned upon?” He laughs, and Sirius counts the two layers of clothing separating the bare skin of their arms.

“We  _ are  _ fraternizing with the enemy, after all,” says Sirius. He brushes his hand over Remus’s, reveling in it. “Sue me.”

And then Remus is kissing him back, until he’s not.

“Shit. Fuck. Goddammit,” Remus says, and Sirius doesn’t think he’s ever heard Remus swear that much before in one sitting. Be still, his beating heart.

“Shit. Severus saw us,” Remus continues.

Sirius looks at him. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asks.

“Severus Snape?” Seeing Sirius’s uncomprehending look, Remus closes his eyes. “Sirius. He’s been in the competition for the past seven weeks with us. You’ve heard Mary and Paul say his name literally every weekend."

Sirius's eyes light up in recognition. "Greasy Asshole! Oh,  _ that  _ guy."

Remus stares at him. "Are you kidding me?”

“I may have deleted it,” Sirius says. “In my defense, he’s not very pretty to look at.” He shrugs, but Remus is chewing on his bottom lip and that makes Sirius nervous.

"Whether you know him or not, he certainly knows us," Remus says, and indicates across the room with his chin. Sirius turns, and sure enough, there's Severus Snape (formerly Greasy Asshole) creeping away from behind a pillar, a nasty smirk on his face. "We should go."

They walk back upstairs in silence. When he stops in front of Remus’s room, Remus looks at him and says, “I think you should go back to your own room.”

“Fuck that,” says Sirius.

“No, no, listen,” rushes Remus. “I’m not - mad or anything. I don’t even know what the rules are - which, I mean, is probably a pretty big oversight on our part, but whatever. It’s just that we’re so close to the end, Sirius,” he says, grabbing Sirius’s hand. “I’m not sure what I would do if I was disqualified over something like this.”

Sirius is tempted to ask, something like what?

“I get it,” Sirius says, and he does. He still wishes to stay when Remus gives him a peck on the lips and closes the door behind him.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, friends. I hope you enjoy this. Honestly it was originally meant to be a filler chapter but kind of got 1k words out of my control, so that happened.
> 
> All comments (whether compliment or criticism) are encouraged!

The next morning, despite his expectations Sirius is not woken up at 7 in the morning  to an iconic mid-2000s pop song. A soft knocking permeates his dream of floating on a cupcake, and he blinks his eyes open both soothed a disturbed at the production of his subconscious mind. He contemplates not getting out of bed, but embracing the inevitability of suffering and flings off the sheets to address the person behind the door.

Through the peephole he sees Remus already dressed, the overachiever, standing with waffles in one hand and coffee in the other.

“I’m not questioning where this came from,” Sirius says, opening the door. He grabs the food and shuffles backwards into his room.

“I suppose it’s a peace offering,” Remus says. Sirius stabs a waffle piece and grunts. Remus is having a better day so far, he thinks, no cane in sight. Apology accepted.

They don’t ride together to the competition grounds. Sirius is an obtuse idiot, but sharp enough to sense Remus's tension lasting from the night before. He tries to shove his own discomfort down. They can’t  _ really  _ punish him for being in a relationship with a competitor? Or - well - not even a  _ relationship _ .

(That way lay madness, so Sirius hums a Kelly Clarkson song and shuts that thought down).

The sky is a blinding flat gray over the baking grounds and the wind is whispering through the surrounding trees. The sudden, sheer emptiness of the grounds without the other ground of bakers strikes Sirius. He can't believe there's only four of them left.

Sirius and Remus stand around the (increasingly disappointing) snack table. Sirius munches on a dry croissant, and thinks that for a baking show he would have expected higher quality baked goods. Ginger Spice is marching across the lawn, wearing a denim jacket and high brown riding boots. Her long red hair is streaming behind her, and she looks like a right Joan of Arc. Sirius sips from his styrofoam cup of tea and watches.

She’s talking to Greasy Asshole (Severus Snape, he reminds himself) now, her brow furrowed. Snape says something back to her, looking towards the ground with a sneer on his face. Ginger Spice snaps something at thim and he stalks away, shooting Sirius a dirty look (that Sirius thinks is extremely unwarranted). Sirius snickers.

He stops short when he sees Ginger Spice now marching  _ his  _ way. Remus, sitting in a chair on the other side of the table, shoots him a questioning look.

Her chin is held high, leading with her chest. She stops in front of them.

“Hey, Lily,” greets Remus. Sirius thinks he is far too friendly for what a situation of this threat level calls for. Ginger Spice (Lily?) nods.

“Remus,” acknowledges Lily, previously known as Ginger Spice. She squints at Sirius. “I spoke to Severus about your love fest on the couch last night.”

Remus blinks. “So literally everyone in the competition saw us.” He turns to Sirius. “This is all your fault.”

“You’re not really supposed to fraternize with everyone else too much outside of the competition - gives unfair motivations, I guess?" Lily says. "But I told him not to say anything."

“Uh, thanks," Sirius says, "but that doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Sev and I were kids together. He won’t do anything, if I asked him not to. So don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” She hesitates. “I mean, technically it’s safe with Severus. And also the woman at the front desk. But I think she liked it, so I wouldn't worry about her.”

“I’m so relieved,” Remus says dryly.

Sirius gasps. “Finally, a woman who recognizes the beauty and charm of our love,” he tells Remus.

“I have no idea what you see in him,” Lily informs Remus, “but it’s cute anyways.” She checks her watch. "The cabs should be here by now.”

And with that, they head out for the second to last Sunday bake.

*****

Sirius had planned for this showstopper with more enthusiasm than every bake previous. The assignment was to create a family-sized hand-raised pie, a technically tricky endeavor even under the most relaxed circumstances.

Sirius had asked James to remember his favorite foods as a child, and took notes as James rambled. He combined the best ingredients to formulate an Indian-inspired potato and lentil pie, with a glazed mango topping. He can’t wait for this episode to air; the Potters would be so proud.

He half-listens to Sue and Mel go through their obligatory pre-show banter, listing the steps in his head until he hears them shout "Go!" in unison. He sets the dried red lentils to boil and begins the dough's flour mixture.

After pouring the rather disgusting mixture of shortening and water on top of the flour, Sirius prepares himself for the most dangerous period of pie creation. He tips the dough onto the flour-covered surface and kneads it into a ball. Once it's firm enough, he sculpts the dough around the pie dolly until it's an appropriate pie-looking shape. He sets a timer for twenty minutes, puts the dough in the refrigerator to set, and busies himself with the filling.

After ten minutes, Sirius is so invested in boiling his potatoes and chopping his tomatoes that he almost misses the sound of raised voices behind him.

“What are you trying to do?” Remus’s voice demands from the back of the tent. Sirius turns around to see him standing up against the fridge, looking down at Snape. Sirius is confused until he sees the familiar dolly in Snape’s hand.

“Is that my pie?” he asks in disbelief. The cameras are following the scene. Remus is glowering down at Snape, and somewhere in the back of his mind Sirius makes a mental note of the unexpected height difference.

“It is,” Remus says coolly. “Severus here was trying to take it out of the fridge. I’m not sure what, exactly, he was doing with it.”

“Nothing,” Snape says. He looks Remus in the eye. “Just trying to make some room for mine. Some people take up too much space with their pies.”

“My pie is smaller than yours!” Sirius protests. He wants to go over, but his potatoes are at a critical stage. “I have literally ten minutes left!”

“Trying to make room. I see." Remus doesn’t move, just quirks an eyebrow in Snape’s direction. Is that what you were doing with Bertha’s oven, as well?”

Sirius turns his gaze to Remus, even more lost, but Snape seems to understand. He slides the pie back into the fridge, face impassive.

“My apologies,” he says, and rushes off back to his baking station.

Sirius looks around at the camera and at Mel and Sue hovering around the scene. They look like they're about to intervene, but Remus waves them off with a half-smiles.

“It’s all good! Back to baking as usual,” Sirius says cheerily. He waves off the cameras and has absolutely no idea what just happened.

The rest of the baking time seems to speed up from that point on. Sirius has to allot more time than expected to baking, the pie taking longer to brown than anticipated. This translates to less time on the cooling rack and putting on the mango chutney glaze too soon. Sirius curses as chutney begins to slide incrementally off the crust, and prays that the juice doesn’t make it soggy.

When Mel and Sue call for the bakers to put down their work, Sirius lifts his hands above his head and stares down at the pie. Except for the bright yellow mango sliding slightly down the sides, he thinks it looks rather good for a hand-raised pie. The sides are a bit lopsided, but after peeking at the other pies his doesn't seem to be out of the ordinary. Hand-raised pies are meant to be rustic, anyway, he thinks.

Mary and Paul pick Sirius to be the first victim, stepping forward up to his baking station. They squint down at the pie, and Mary cuts a thick slice. Sirius winces.

“Nice crust,” Paul comments. “The glazed mango does look a bit runny. Otherwise decent presentation.”

Mary takes a bite, pauses for a moment, and nods. “Nice job,” she says, and Sirius exhales. “You always bring something new to the table, and this time in works in your favor.”

Paul chews his piece, considering. “I like it,” he says, and goes on to say something about the overbearing taste of cumin, but Sirius tunes him in favor of thanking the baking gods.

Lily and Remus both do well, technically perfect as usual. Lily's flavor combinations are a bit off and Remus has a slight burn on his crust, but Sirius is so full of relief he could burst.

All that pales, however, in comparison to Snape's judging. Apparently too distracted by attempted sabotage (Sirius still cannot believe that was actually a thing that happened), he had waited too long to shape his dough, leading to an chewy, underbaked crust.

“Perhaps you should have spent some more time on your own pie,” Mary says, “rather than looking around in the freezer." Sirius thinks he’s hallucinating. There’s no way they won’t edit that bit out (or not, since it is a reality show after all), but it's possibly the best moment of the competition so far.

After Snape is eliminated, they're only given a short break before separating for yet another series of interviews. Sirius thinks of bursting into the flat and telling the news to James and Peter, who had been anxiously waiting for his return. (Well, he  _ imagines  _ their anxiety. James might be concerned like a proper friend, but Peter might just not give a shit.)

After widening his eyes and asking one of the production assistants if he could  _ please  _ go back to the hotel because he just  _ can’t  _ wait to tell his best mates that he got through, Sirius gets out early. He decides to wait in the hotel lobby for Remus to return. He lays back in an armchair (squeaky but comfortable), sipping on a (weak but warm) cup of tea, and lets his eyes close.

Sirius blink awake to his shoulder shaking and Remus smiling down at him. Sirius basks for a moment before the main mystery of the situation catches up to his sleep-addled brain. He pulls Remus down into the seat next to him.

“What the hell was up with that whole Bertha business?” Sirius demands. Remus bites his lip, looking a bit . . . embarrassed.

“Funny story, that,” Remus says. Sirius stares at him until he continues. “A few weeks ago, remember when Bertha completely burnt her cake?” Sirius doesn’t, has no idea who Bertha even was, but nods his head anyway.

“I saw Severus walk by her baking station, right near the oven. I didn’t think anything of it, but looking back to how it burnt . . . I think he must have turned the temperature up to get her out of the competition.”

“You had suspicions but didn’t tell anyone?” an indignant voice accuses from behind them. Sirius turns to see Lily.

“And  _ you _ told us that Snape would keep his mouth shut, and he ended up trying to sabotage me,” Sirius points out. Lily frowns, but says nothing.

“No, it’s fair,” Remus says. He raises his hands. “There wasn’t proof, so I couldn’t tell anyone. And I wish I could have checked in the moment.”

“Right. Poor Bertha. Anyway," Sirius says, "why would he even bother with me?”

Ginger shrugs. “He felt threatened, probably,” she says. She shrugs her shoulders defensively. “We go way back. He’s a prat, I know. But I didn’t think he’d do something like that . . . “ she trails off. “Anyway, I’m sorry. For both of us, I guess.”

She sticks out her hand, and Sirius stares at it for a second until he’s nudged by Remus, and accepts.

She disappears to terrorize some other unsuspecting folk, and Remus and Sirius head back to Remus's room. Remus gathering up his clothes while Sirius appraises him from the bed, staring at his bent over figure.

“That was pretty hot,” he says.

Remus hums. “What ?” he asks, still turned around.

“How you defended me,” Sirius says. He walks over to Remus and puts his hands on his hips. Remus turns around, laughing.

“I think I sounded like a bit of an idiot, actually,” he says. “Hold on. I need to sit.” He leads them to sit down on the bed.

“Never,” Sirius says, and then they’re kissing. After a long moment, Sirius leans back and breaks them apart, fingering a loose thread on Remus’s cardigan.

“Seriously, though. This might be the best day of my life. Did you hear how Mary roasted him during the judging?”

Remus looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Can you please refrain from mentioning Mary Berry while I’m kissing you?” Remus asks, looking pained. His lips are very pink, and his hair rustled up above his head. Sirius notices distantly how deep and dark his eyes are.

“Mary who?” Sirius says. “I’ve never heard of her.”

He leans back in.

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. . . hey guys. Long time no see. NaNo and life got in the way, but I'm glad to bring you the final (real) chapter in my GBBO work! There will be a short epilogue coming, but this is where the plot and story tie up for real.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Thanks for sticking with me through it all.

If Sirius was anxious the week before, the week leading up to the final bake is another monster. Although he prepares the bakes for the next week with his usual routine, the flavor and technique debate reaches a new height. His eyes glaze over throughout his lectures, and spends all week on the verge of hyperventilation. Being up against the Remus and Lily's technical perfection makes Sirius feel like a baking pan is constantly hitting him over the head (irony intended).

It’s made worse, he thinks, by how James and Peter are acting. In the weeks previous they had been as normal as is possible for James and Peter, unfazed as usual by Sirius's weekly near-breakdowns.  This week, however, a new sense of anxiety settles over their flat like a scratchy blanket. Peter makes himself even more scarce than usual. James sits in silence watching Sirius practice , blurting questions about baking chemistry that Sirius is not nearly qualified to answer.

Sirius would hate it, but it makes him feel loved.

When early Saturday morning comes, as it tends to do, Sirius drapes himself over James. They're both barely awake, but Sirius tries to remedy this by moaning in James's ear about his imminent demise.

James slaps him.

“Ow,” Sirius says, rubbing his cheek.

“You’re not going to war,” James admonishes, poking Sirius. “Don’t jinx it.”

Sirius loves James.

As the cab ride goes by, Sirius periodically measures his heart rate. It escalates in speed the closer he gets to the manor grounds.

An assistant shuffles Sirius into the same room that the contestants waited in the first day of the competition. Remus and Lily are there as well, and they wave to each other, exchanging supportive glances.  They are all silent, and unusually twitchy. Sirius answers his questions dutifully, letting his mouth run without his guidance (as he is often wont to do), craning his neck to look out the window. He spots a large group of people and almost swallows his tongue.

Sirius had completely forgotten that the contestants’ family and friends attend the final.  He wracks his brain, trying to remember whether he told the boys. During the first few weeks he hadn't wanted to jinx his possible success, and in later weeks he must have been so distracted by Remus that it had completely slipped his mind. He hopes that James somehow worked his voodoo magic and found out, just like he finds out everything else.

Right as he's about to begin panicking, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_ Dont fuck up pads we r here watching!!!!!!!!!!!!!xoxoxoxox proooooongs _

Sirius smiles. James's grammar may be disgusting, but he sure has a sense of timing.

Shortly, the three are able to enter the grounds and go onto the baking tent. Right before they exit the manor, Sirius feels a hand slip into his and squeeze before letting go almost immediately. He turns his head, and Remus winks at him, although his face is pale and half-smile short-lived. Lily coos from behind them, but falls silent when they walk out.

As they step onto the grounds, the first thing Sirius is aware of is the beautiful weather. The sun in shining, and the grass is as green as the picturesque scene that Sirius first saw on the television screen months ago. He's only aware of this for a moment before he's distracted by the small army of people that seem to have suddenly sprung into being around the baking tent. Used to a field only occupied by sheep and the occasional crying baker, the several dozen seem like triple their size. The perceived size could also be attributed to the amount of noise that the crowd is making, which sounds like a medium sized concert venue blasted over a loudspeaker.

He hears a woman’s voice cry out “Remus” from the depths of the crowd as they walk past. Remus lights up and waves back, smiling widely. Sirius cranes his neck for the source of the voice, but when that fails, he continues looking for James and Peter.

All the past contestants are there, as well as their entire set of entire extended families and friends (and their families’s friends and friend’s families, it seems) along with them. Sirius thinks he would have enjoyed the attention, if it wasn’t currently being dampened by the sickening feeling of his stomach trying to curl itself into a tight knot.

They filter into the tent together, spreading out among the empty baking stations. Sirius drums his hands against the counter. Lily shoots him a look, but she’s shifting her weight from foot to foot and biting her left hand, so Sirius decides to forgive her. He feels the phone is his pocket buzz again, and sneaks a look.

_ I mean its ok if u fuck up we willst ill lov yuo xxxxxoxoxoox _

His phone buzzes again, this time from Peter.

_ Ignore James. We brought guests, too. _

Sirius is soothed, but also more alarmed. He doesn't know who else could be here besides James and Sirius.

He pushes the thought to the side as Mel goes through the obligatory witticisms that precede the beginning of a bake. When they’re finally given permission to bake, Sirius is ready.

The first signature is a set of sixteen iced buns set in a three hour time limit. Sirius pulses flour and sugar together, letting the mixer run while cracking an egg into the bowl and paying close attention not to let in any shell. He adds water droplets at a time until a soft dough forms, and kneads for 8 minutes exactly. He's dead silent during the process, despite Mel and Sue's attempts to spur a conversation; for once in his life, Sirius is not feeling conversational. He plans two batches, finishing a cinnamon and apple combination first.

While the cinnamon apple dough sets to rise, he focuses on his other set of buns - cardamom and almond. He chops the almonds roughly before tossing them in with the dough. He fears the texture might mimic that of a scone rather than a proper bun, but thinks the risk will pay off. He crushes more almonds beneath a rolling pin and begins to prep the icing.

Each batch bakes for ten minutes each, and even with two timers Sirius's heart beat alarmingly fast the entire time. They both come out well baked, though, and this time he’s allocated enough time to let them cool completely before decorating with icing. When Mel and Sue shout the end of the competition, he raises his hands and thinks he’s done alright.

Paul and Mary seem to think so, too.

The technical bake is as stressful as ever. They're assigned something called a mille-feuille that Sirius is scared to pronounce. He skims the recipe and realizes with relief he knows it as a custard slice.

That doesn’t make it any easier to do, he thinks wryly, as he prepares the puff pastry. He layers custard cream on over the pastry, in three layers, wincing when he slops a little over the sides.

The judging is as Sirius expected; Mary and Paul praise the technical technique of Lily and Remus, higher than he ever could have achieved. He tries to rationalize his outcome with the success of the first, but his stomach still lurches.

They’re given a break for lunch after the technical challenge, where everyone is able to mingle in the crowd. Sirius is still feeling a bit queasy from his technical disaster, so he sinks into the manor instead.

He’s busy hyperventilating against a wall when he hears footsteps behind him. He turns to look, and there’s Remus, standing in the entrance several feet away.

“Congrats on the technical,” Sirius says, staring hard at a misshapen brick on one of the walls. He is trying very hard not to panic.

Remus walks up to him and says nothing, for which Sirius is endlessly grateful. Instead, he drapes himself over Sirius in a hug.

“You’re fine,” he says. They’re both quiet for a moment, Sirius matching his inhales and exhales to Remus’s steady breathing.

“Sorry,” Sirius says, shaking himself. “Just - final bake. Stress. You know.”

“Don’t apologize,” Remus says. He reaches out a hand and pushes a strand of Sirius’s hair behind his ear from where it fell out of its ponytail. He clears his throat. “It’s nearly time.”

Sirius gives Remus’s hand a squeeze, and they head back out onto the field in time for the beginning of the final, showstopper bake.

Sirius had decided to create a curry carrot cake, family sized. He knows that this departure from his usual flavor combinations is risky, with the extra additions of walnuts and more spices than can be found on his shelves at home.

He spends the four hours in a meditative state, the world narrowed down to  him, the pan and the flour. He practices the movements that he’s memorized since he was ten, and  lets it go.

There’s no overt judging, no standing in front of the judges, to not give anyone any hints about who is the winner. While Paul and Mary converse, the three competitors move over to the grassy hill in front of the tent where the families and friends laid down their picnic blanket. Although there's a flurry of activity all around them, Remus, Lily and Sirius band together, silent and tense. The other onlookers seem to sense this, and leave them alone together in their anxiety. Sirius thinks that he ought to be feeling calm; should be descending into the meditative state that he somehow sunk into during the last bake. The atmosphere is picturesque - the view of scattered blankets in the grass, the air of early summer. Instead, he feels very much like he would like to throw up.

Mary and Paul walk back up with Sue, who has been privy to their discussion. Mel is whispered to as well.

The three stand together with bated breath, the crowd around them silencing at once as Mel clears her throat and stands with the judges at the foot of the hill, camera and eyes trained on her face. Sirius glances at Remus, whose lips press together so tightly  that they resemble two thin lines.

“And is the winner is . . . “ Mel hesitates. Sirius feels the urge to strangle something.

“Lily Evans!”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the whole crowd erupts. Lily looks like she’d been struck by lightning: frozen in place, white flour striping her red hair, a broad smile slowly growing across her face.

Sirius barely has time to register a sharp pang of disappointment before he’s being struck from the side. He topples over and has several heart attacks before he realizes that it’s James, screaming something unintelligible, Peter trailing not far behind him and adding on his considerable body weight. Sirius’s knees buckle and a small voice inside him that doesn’t seem to belong to anybody in particular tells him that he should focus more on leg day at the gym.

Once James and Peter slide down his body and make contact with the ground - more thanks to gravity than any particular desire of theirs to release him - Sirius can see Remus being hugged by two tall, mousy brown people almost as bony as him. They make eye contact and smile. Sirius hears Mrs. Potter’s voice behind him.

“You beautiful, lucky boy!” she cries, joining the group hug and trying to kiss his cheek. Mr. Potter is not far behind her, and the air around them smells like clove and black pepper.

Sirius closes his eyes as he’s hugged, and it takes several minutes more until Mrs. Potter is finally persuaded to release him. Remus and Sirius lock eyes again.

Remus untangles himself from his (presumably) parents, and walks toward Sirius. Sirius smiles broadly, eyes crinkling as he sees the flour dotting Remus's nose and hair.

"Congratulations, competitor," Sirius says with a sideways smile, sticking out his hand for Remus to shake. Remus stares at his hand, shakes his head disbelievingly, and grabs Sirius by the shoulders to pull him into a kiss.

Faintly Sirius can hear Lily groaning from behind them, something about “of course you would ruin my moment, Black,” and he can hear Peter cat calling and James making kissing noises, and the cameras are surely focusing on them, but right now, he doesn’t care. He can feel the soft knit of Remus’s sweater against his hands, and feels Remus brush his hands against the day old stubble on Sirius’s chin. He closes his eyes again and refocuses on Remus.

The smell of burnt sugar and melted chocolate wrap around their embrace and coat the places where their two bodies meet.

  
  



End file.
